They could still picture the sink, the running water, the careless way they’d waved it off. “It’s just a bite,” they’d said, more annoyed than afraid, watching the tiny red dot fade beneath the tap. They didn’t see the trap being set beneath their skin. Hours later, the pain returned, no longer a sting but a deep, pulsing throb that made the room feel smaller. Their hand looked foreign—swollen, mottled, as if it belonged to someone else. At the hospital, the air changed the moment the nurse pulled back the bandage. Urgency replaced routine. Monitors beeped faster. Consent forms appeared.
They remember the surgeon’s eyes more than his words: the weight of what he wasn’t sure he could save. Infection carved its path under the surface, racing against the scalpel. They lived, but with less innocence. Now, they don’t tell a horror story. They tell a rule: hesitation has a cost.
