The Anesthesiologist's Report

The rhythmic *whirrr* of the surgical lights above was a familiar lullaby, a counterpoint to the softer, more insistent beep of the patient monitor. My gloved hands, encased in sterile green, moved with a practiced grace honed by thousands of hours under these very lights. The air in the OR was thick with the clean, metallic tang of sterile instruments and the faint, almost imperceptible scent of ozone from the electrocautery. Around me, my team, a constellation of sterile blue scrubs and caps, moved with the silent, synchronized efficiency of a well-oiled machine. Juni, her brow furrowed in concentration, held the retractor steady, her gaze fixed on the surgical field. Cat, her usual reassuring smile a little tighter than normal, was managing the suction, her movements precise. Charlie, ever the picture of focused energy, was prepping a new set of instruments, her nimble fingers flying.

“Suction, Cat,” I murmured, my voice low and even, barely disturbing the hushed reverence of the operating room. The amniotic fluid, tinged with an alarming, almost iridescent hue, vanished into the tube.

“Pressure is holding, Zoey,” Juni reported, her voice a steady anchor. “No significant bleed.”