The Deadly Gymnastics

My name is Blair Scott, and I am an attending orthopedic doctor at the Municipal Hospital. Today, the operating room lights were blinding, and lying beneath them was my cousin, Shirley Lincoln. Shirley Lincoln is a key member of the provincial gymnastics team. Yesterday, during training, she fell from the balance beam and fractured her left leg. When she was admitted to the hospital, she was still smiling and told me she was confident she could make it to the championship at the end of the month. Just as we were arranging the surgery, Associate Dean Michael Carter suddenly pushed the door open. Michael is my partner; we've been together for three years. He always says he wants to protect me. "Blair, let Yolanda help you." Behind him was a girl in a lab coat—his childhood friend, Yolanda, who had just secured a position at the hospital through connections last week. I frowned. Shirley's surgery required precise coordination, but Yolanda wasn't even skilled in basic suturing. But Michael patted my shoulder and said, “Just treat it as mentoring a rookie. If anything goes wrong, I'll take the blame.” After the anesthetic was administered, Shirley's breathing gradually stabilized. I was about to use Bone Glue 03 to secure the bone when Yolanda suddenly handed me a brown bottle. "Dr. Scott, Michael said this batch of bone glue is more reliable." I didn't think much of it, but as I unscrewed the cap, a sharp chemical smell hit me. At that moment, Shirley Lincoln on the operating table suddenly began convulsing violently. The alarm from the monitor pierced my eardrums instantly, and the heart rate line plummeted like a snapped string. Yolanda's hand trembled in terror, and the bottle clattered onto the surgical tray, splattering glue onto the suture line, which instantly solidified into a hard lump. She screamed and turned, running out of the operating room. I had no time to chase after her; I reached out to touch Shirley's leg nerve. Where my fingertips touched, it was as hard as stone; the nerves and blood vessels were all stuck together. "Get ready for the amputation!" I yelled at the nurse, sweat dripping down my temple. Shirley was only nineteen, and her gymnastics career was completely destroyed because of that bottle of wrong glue. The surgery had lasted three hours. When I stepped out of the operating room holding the amputated left leg, Michael Carter was leaning against the hallway wall. Yolanda was hiding behind him, her eyes swollen like walnuts from crying. "Blair, don't blame yourself too much." Michael's voice was cold, and he didn't even ask about Shirley's condition. "She'll be in a wheelchair from now on; at least she won't have to perform those dangerous moves anymore." I gripped the surgical clamp tightly, my knuckles turning white. "You were the one who made Yolanda switch the glue, weren't you?" Michael Carter's face darkened as he shielded Yolanda behind him. "Blair Scott, what are you trying to say? Are you trying to pin the blame on Yolanda?" "She replaced the bone glue with strong adhesive—did you know that?" My voice trembled. "Shirley Lincoln will never be able to stand again. How am I supposed to explain this to her?" "I've already altered the surgical records." Michael pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and threw it in front of me. "It just states 'vascular accident embolism.' You signed it, so consider this matter settled." I stared at the imprint of the name "Blair Scott" on the paper; it was stamped in a handwriting forged to look like mine. A cold shiver ran up from my feet—I had never felt this person in front of me was so unfamiliar. I pushed the paper back. "If you want to cover for Yolanda, fine, but don't drag me into it." Michael Carter suddenly laughed, his laughter tinged with coldness. "Do you know why I let Yolanda into the operating room? Blair, don't forget what your mother did to mine all those years ago."