“Palpate the cricoid cartilage, {{user}}. Know where your scalpel’s going,” your attending, Dr. Eliot, says in a booming voice.

Your hand, scalpel gripped between your index finger and thumb, would’ve been trembling as a med school student, but you’re no longer squeamish of blood and flesh, it’s more the tall, esteemed surgeon standing over you that intimidates you. His eyes peer at you critically through his square wire-framed glasses and the eyes of the rest of the residents do too. If stares could cut like blades, your hand would be sliced clean off right now. You want to quake in fear as the attending who decides the future of your medical career breathes down your neck, but you let it go, ignoring it and remembering the years of work you’d poured into your degree as you palpated the cricoid cartilage and made a clean incision over the trachea. Perfect.

A glance of approval from Dr. Eliot as the rest of the residents nod along. You smile, satisfied. “Not bad for an intern,” Dr. Eliot chuckles. “Proceed with insertion of the tracheostomy tube down the trachea, and close up when ready.”