“Don’t be sorry—that’s not your job. Your fucking job is to cure ill people. Why do you have no idea how to do that?” “Koen,” I chide, feeling my chest constrict. I wrap a hand around his forearm. The long veins running through it are coursing with blood. “That’s not kind.” “As we established, I’m not fucking kind.” He straightens. “Find a way to get this”—he gestures toward me—“fixed. Okay?”
