Warshon switched on the light. 

The overhead fluorescent fixtures cast a harsh, clinical glow across the dome under the pier. 

He cast away his mask and tore off his coat. A groan of pain parted his lips, cold sweat dripping from his tousled hair. 

"Do you need help with that?" asked the girl, betrayed by the quaver in her voice as she tried to look composed. 

"I did ask for help, didn't I?" 

"Yes, but I thought you meant to use me like a crotch –" her voice trailed off upon seeing him chuckle.

"Wouldn't that be letting you off too easily?" Angling to the secured landline nailed to a wall, he took off the receiver and dialed. 

"Yes, boss?" Erdem's voice came over the phone. 

"Call Dinc, and arrange the health check for the sailors tomorrow morning," he grunted, toiling for breath. "I need you to drive to my place first and pretend you're picking me up so the mileage is on record. Then, come to the Port, and stop by the pier. I'll meet you there. Text to this number the time once you confirm with Dinc, and ten minutes before your arrival."

"Ok," the boy replied, his voice tentative. 

"Questions?"

"The pier?"

"Yes."

"You ok, boss?"

"Do as I said, and I'll be."

"Copy."

Dial tone cut in. Warshon hung up and swiveled back. Pulling out a drawer of surgical supplies, he glanced at the girl over his shoulder. "Ever sew up a man before?" 

Her big green eyes widened, gaping like emeralds. 

"Of course not," he went forth. "But you'll have to make your first today. Come here." He beckoned her over as he plopped into a reclining chair with his back to a wall mirror. 

As she edged toward him, he grabbed her arm which felt even thinner than it looked. "Let's start easy," he panted, his hand unbuttoning. "Help me get out of this damn shirt."

Drawing a long breath through her trembling lips, she steadied her eyes at his wound. "Well, I hope you have no sentiment attached to this shirt." At the fall of her voice, she snatched a scalpel from the drawer and ripped his shirt from the back. "Blood is sticky. It's easier this way, that I know," she added, matter-of-factly.

Warshon considered her for a moment. Under the harsh light, she looked anemic. Despite the glint of fortitude in those mesmerizing eyes, vulnerability whispered on her soft lips shaped like a cherry blossom petal. "So, you've treated wounds before?"

She nodded and shook her head. "Don't get your hopes up. I have zero medical background. Only looked up online on how to suture before," she muttered, her voice not much louder than the thrumming of the ventilation. "But you do, right? That's why you're sitting with your back to the mirror. Instruct me?" She risked meeting his gaze for a splinter of a second and averted her eyes. 

A smile narrowed his gaze. He leaned to the drawer as he took the brachial plexus block, his face close to hers. A glimpse caught two red swellings on the lower back of her neck, possibly bug bites or mosquitoes. "You're brave, and I appreciate it," he added while giving himself a shot of the anesthesia. "What's your name?" 

"Huh?" Turning her back to him, she looked for isopropyl. 

"Your name."

A second of hesitation. "Evan."

"Is that so?" Warshon narrowed his eyes. Evan Ginsberg? A chuckle came hissing through his parted lips. No wonder you look familiar. 

"I think I'm ready," she said, skipping his rhetorical if not loaded question, her wheezing voice taut with jitters. "My hands are sanitized too, and gloved, and, and…" 

He grabbed her arm, spinning her toward him. Holding her chin, he forced her eyes to meet his. "You can do it," he said. "You have the guts, and you're clever. I saw you at the Port. Seems to me you know how to make the most of your situation. You can do it, and I trust you."