A young werewolf lay face-down on the table while overhead, surgical lights glared down on him, white and blinding. His wrists and ankles were strapped tightly to the padded restraints.
He was barely conscious, his breath coming in shallow rasps, and his pupils sluggish from the sedative coursing through his system. His spine, however, remained fully exposed, a concise incision running along the lower vertebrae, held open by retractors.
Patrick hovered over the boy with such calm that could unnerve death itself.
"Vitals?" he asked without looking up.
"Stable. BP 112 over 74. Heart rate holding at 58," one of the assisting surgeons replied from the monitors.
"Good. Suction probe."
