“Here,” she says and drops her heart into my open palms.

Blood drips between my fingers and the pulsating rhythm of ventricles radiates up my arms, jumpstarting my own heart into synch.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask in a panic.

“You’ll figure it out.”


“A broken heart is my Achilles heel. I have a nose for trouble but no stomach for pain.”
With that, she gave me a piece of her mind and a wave of her hand.
I will never play Operation with the likes of her again.