He was a pediatric cardiovascular surgeon. In layman's terms, he fixed kids' hearts.

He was the oldest robotic surgeon operator. He'd been twenty-five when he'd first bought a Nintendo because he grew up poor. Not "didn't have Air Jordans" poor but "Dad spent rent on beer so Mom had to blow the landlord so we could stay in our one bedroom" poor. He had fished quarters out if the gutters with bubble gum on a string and longer to spend the money on Space Invaders, but he had bought bread with it.

He had fucked a few women. A lot of women. Dragged them to the arcade while he played Tetris. Some of them even stayed to watch them because they wanted him that bad.

He eventually fucked his roommate. And married him in 2004 once it was legal in Canada. They had two children. One was in medical school and wanted to be a pathologist.

They were both cardiologists and were a little disappointed. But still proud.

He had gotten through med school on hockey scholarships. He had gotten through undergrad on lacrosse. Lots of white boys who wouldn't skate. Lots of them never wore their gear. When he checked one of them a little too hard one game, he ruptured his kidney.

He died, but wasn't his fault. The university said so. But he stuck to hockey from then on. And second string football. He gave a few more concussions.

He still played on Thursdays and some Sundays. He ran. His father-in-law, who didn't hate him as much since he sold his motorcycle, ran with him. He did a 10k this summer with his daughters and was working on a half marathon.

He didn't each much red meat but maybe drank a few too many beer in a week. His dad's side.

None of this described Richard Blake as he jerked on the floor of the operating room, joysticks of the robot the interns called Red Wine limp. None of this described the shell that would lie prone in bed in the coming week. That wasn't that physical being. But his image was there, drooling and twitching.

Part of him was still there. He heard it. But when he heard of that fatal slice, that one jerk before he took his hand off the control, it retreated further into the physical blockage of his own body.

Addiction, sports, dedication, surgery. It was about the mind overtaking the body.

When he'd failed to do that, he'd killed a child. The same age as his youngest daughter.

And as they talked about his own surgery, performed with the robot the interns called Einstein, he wanted them to fail. He wanted the fatal slice.