Greg went in with no plan other than to draw out the experience for as lengthy a time as possible. At first he merely cupped the organ, feeling its weight and shape in his palm, and then slowly he began to caress it, massage it, feeling its slick, bloody moistness on the tips of his fingers. Then he ventured inside, entering through the vena cava and brushing the entrance to Martin’s pulmonary valve with the tip of his forefinger.
It was only when Raj stormed out of the operating theatre that Greg awoke from the deep reverie he had fallen into, aware suddenly of his own audible sobbing and the bizarre position he’d adopted—leaning forward, splayed across Martin, his forehead rested on the forceps that held open the wound.