The woman lay naked on the old barn door, arms tied out from her tiny body, crucifixion-style. Her head was taped, immobile, to the rough, splintered boards beneath her. Her long dark hair coiled underneath her head. A clear plastic tube snaked down her throat and into her lungs, and fogged with each breath. She struggled against her bonds. Spotlights had been hung in the corners, and the beams focused on the woman, pure light fighting back the darkness of the shadows.
Her scrubs were piled in the corner, white coat crumpled on top. The young man bent over the coat and plucked a pin from the lapel. The diamonds created the shape of a bone and sparkled in the bright light of the barn.
He pocketed the pin and sauntered over to a plain cardboard box in another corner of the structure. The box sat atop a small wooden table surrounded with surgical equipment. Lifting the lid, he pulled out a squat brown bottle and a scalpel. For a moment he let his eyes trace the length of the blade, holding it so the light caught the edge. Slipping a surgical mask over his mouth and nose, he walked across the dirty concrete floor to the woman. She screamed against the cylinder in her throat, which pushed aside her vocal cords. No sound emerged.