Good Grief

Denial

Log Entry 8394.1

Status: Breach Detected

Location: Distal Palmer Surface

Severity Index: Moderate

Response Time: Immediate

It feels like we’ve been shot. I know that’s not what happened. I’m literally the brains of this operation. It’s my job to know. We have not been shot, but –

I think about what just happened:

A flash of motion. Contact. Then a pause. The sound of the blade skidding off bone. The pause again.

Then blood.

Immediate, warm, spreading. Another friggin’ injury! OK. Let’s do this.

I register everything before the subject does:

• Blade: kitchen knife.

• Length: 20 cm.

• Substance: lemon juice and seed oil.

• Angle of entry: internal arc, right to left.

• Intent: slice vegetable.

• Result: laceration.

• Fault: his own hand. Again.

“Constrict vessels. Deploy Platelets. Begin clotting cascade. Quietly.”

Platelets answer without voice or resistance. They form the wall, stack themselves into the wound’s mouth, burst and bind. They work fast. They always do.

Still—the signal goes out.

And someone notifies the Adrenal Gland.

“No,” I say, too late. “Don’t escalate.”

Too late.

Epinephrine. Cortisol.

The heart spikes. Lungs seize. Pupils bloom black. Saliva dries. Sweat forms. The stomach tightens.

Then comes nausea—that deep, rolling instinct that says sit down now or fall down later.

“Send message to legs: reduce standing load. Recommend chair.”

He ignores it. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t look yet. He knows.

Not just that he’s bleeding—but that it’s his fault.

He’s not a child. Not a novice.