Anatomical heart with antlers on a thigh

Sister Ruth Pennock signed the transfer sheet without looking up. Her red biro left a dot on the form where she paused, and she tapped it twice before she spoke. 'Theatre's expecting it at four. Don't let them tell you it's early.' Beyond the glass, the car park lamps made everything the colour of weak tea, and at the far fence a stag stood with its head up, its antlers as fine as a bare hedge against the sky. I had never seen one so close to the city. Ruth followed my look and said nothing, which I took as permission to stand a moment longer.

Thirty years on nights, she told me, and she had seen three deer in all that time. Each one made her think of the surgeons who once carried hearts down corridors like this with no lift, no cool box and no map of the vessels, only their hands and their nerve. She laughed at herself, then stopped laughing. The box felt heavier when I picked it up again, though I knew it was not.

On the way back down I passed the window again. The stag had gone, and the lift doors at the end of the landing had opened, lit and empty and working perfectly. I took the stairs anyway, one hand on the rail, counting the steps the way my father used to count deer on the hill road, as if the number might keep something from getting away.