Pool_1

card with telephone numbers including her place of work and a list of canned messages that could be left. Make a sprint. Mina knew what that meant. Sprint was the pub. Trot was Italian. Bolt was Mexican. Dash was Sushi. The nurses supplied arrival times. They were better at it. Then there was the rain message. Rain was, well, rain - not going to make it - go ahead and eat without me - again -more to do. Mina claimed to have become an inhabitant of a rain forest. His mind was on finishing, but his hands were all business, not losing even a second. Surgeons use hand gestures as often as not for their operating needs. It's a right brain thing. Speech doesn't get in the way. Small talk does not matter. The left brain needs something to do while the right brain is doing all the work. To the uninitiated, it is hard to figure how he could even think with the radio so loud, occasionally shouting, "Here, hold this. Give me the Haney needle holder. No. Back hand. Yeah, better, OK, OK, there! Buh-buh-buh-baaaaaad!" The left brain would occasionally have to clarify a right brain hand gesture. At least it had something to do besides listen to rock and roll. Into his work, he was way beyond thought, in its usual sense. Monitor beeps were mentally muted, getting notice only if they changed. "Buh-buh-buh-baaaaaad. Bad to da bo-wone." Right now George Thorogood had at least half of his attention. It was impossible for him to not reflexly chime in, even though a child's body parts and future were literally in his hands, trusted to his every move. With moves that seemed to be on auto pilot, this was play. There was a devilish smile unseen beneath his mask. "Buh buh buh baaaaad," Dr. Macaluso echoed, pulling the longest hamstring muscle through a new tunnel he fashioned in the thigh before anchoring it for it's new work. Multiple other muscles were already relocated.