Monday through Thursday, I’m in the operating room. Where I’m safe. Fridays, I see postops.

I hate Fridays.

This Friday, I see the Kid I transplanted last month.

“Can I have my heart?” Kid asks.

A request without precedent. Requires an uncommon confluence. Gotta have a transplant. Gotta survive. Then you gotta ask.

“What for?” I say.

Kid blushes. Looks at Mom.

Mom smiles. “Tell him.”

“Take to school,” Kid says. “Show and Tell.”

I get it. Your heart at Show and Tell. The greatest Show and Tell of all time. Beats the shit out of a bucket of tadpoles. Somebody brings pressed leaves from trip to grandpa’s in Vermont? Get outta here. Your heart. A Show and Tell for the ages.

“Lemme see,” I say.

Meantime, check the kid. Look at wound. Nasty red scar, neck to nether. Kid not a great healer. No surprise. Last month, almost dead. Bloated belly, skinny arms and legs. Looked like a Big Eye Kid from a bad painting.

Better now. Mom saw him run yesterday. Kid ran, mom cried.

***

Transplant. Overrated operation. Cut the old one out, throw the new one in. No technical finesse. Just one big suture line.

***

Oh, except for one thing. After you cut the old one out? And before you sew the new one in? Not that long. Few minutes. But that time? Look down. Into the chest. Big fucking hole. Big. Fucking. Hole.

Still. Just one big suture line.

***

Oh, one other thing. Some other son of a bitch has to die first. Which is special.

***

Pathologist looks at me funny. What did the crazy surgeon just tell him?

“Kid wants his heart,” I repeat.

“Wants? His heart?” Pathologist has a gazillion on the shelf. What’s one more or less?

“Yeah. Problem?”

“Guess not. Never came up before.”

“Done with it? Tests and stuff?”

“Guess so. How do you want it?”

“Whatever,” I say. “Jar or something.”

***

Kid smiles. Jar in his lap.

Mom furrows her brow. “Is he okay?”

I think, compared with almost dead? But I say, “Yes, ma’am. He’s doing well.”

“He doesn’t sleep much anymore.”

I think, yeah, returning from almost dead does that. But I say, “Yes, ma’am. A prolonged hospitalization can disrupt your sleep cycle. I’m confident he’ll adjust.”

***

Kid’s donor was a big dude. Had a big heart. For the Kid, like putting a Porsche engine into a Ford Pinto. Donor was a cop. “Eating the gun,” is what they call it. Cops do that sometimes. Primo donors. Young, good physical condition. Eating the gun means all your organs are good. Amateurs screw things up. Shoot themselves in the chest with a shotgun--bad for the organs. Or worse, hold the gun under the chin. Always flinch at the last second. Blow your face off but don’t kill yourself. Second chance at life, only real ugly. Cops. No mistakes. Gotta love the cops.

The resident who’s helping me sew the thing in says, “They’re gonna wonder why the Kid likes donuts so much.” Then he thinks for a minute. “They’re gonna wonder even more why he keeps picking fights with the black kids.”

***

Hospital administrator. Pissed off. “You can’t do that.”

“His heart.”

“Dangerous. Legal liability. In formaldehyde, right?”

“Uh, yeah. Otherwise it starts to stink.”

“Get it back. Liable legally.”

“Good luck. What are you gonna do? Send the cops?”

“You gave it. You get it.”

“Not my problem.”

“Gave the Kid formaldehyde. What if he drinks it?”

“Um, tastes bad?” I say. But I’m just guessing.

“Legally. Liable.”

“Promise,” I say. “Never do it again. Cross my heart.”

***

Phone call. Kid’s Mom, frantic. “Administrator wants it.”

I think, you could tell him to stick his head up his ass and look for it there. But I say, “I suggest, ma’am, that you respectfully decline.”

“Scared.”

I think, you could tell him you’ll cut off his balls if he bothers you again. But I say, “I suggest, ma’am, you tell him your lawyer will review his request.”

***

Phone call. Kid’s Mom again. “Show and Tell tomorrow.”

“Cool.”

“Come?”

Damn. Surgeon’s rule. Don’t mix with civilians. No parties, no weddings, no funerals. No Show and Tell. “Uh. Kinda busy.”

“Please,” she says.

***

Administrator again. “Get it back. Or else.”

This is getting old. “Or else what? Break in? Steal it?”

“Could become a privileging issue.”

“My privileges?”

Administrator says, “Unauthorized removal. Dangerous substances. Endangering a minor.”

“You threatening my privileges?”

Adminstrator says, “Just saying.”

***

I’m perched on a stool, a foot off the floor. Show and Tell. First, boy with geode. Then, girl who went to Dodgers game, got Manny’s autograph. Followed by another girl with new cell phone. Any other week, primo stuff. This week, lame, lame, and very lame.

Kid is last. Raises jar. “My heart.”

Twenty-three first graders, utterly silent. Kid smiles. Smiles extra hard at Geode Boy. Don’t bring that weak shit in here.

Teacher. Impressed. “That’s Show. Now Tell. What’s what?”

What is this? Fucking quiz?

Kid shakes jar. Maroon chunk oscillates and Kid points at random. “Right . . . arboretum? Left . . . mysterical?”

Teacher frowns. Oh, yeah, like she’s an expert. Looks at me. “Help, please?”

Don’t know why. Kid was doing fine.

I stand beside him. Comes back to me. Long time ago. Brought in a painted rock. Called it a gold nugget. Jerry Starks busted me on it.

I take the jar from the Kid. I stare at this shrunken protoplasm, this shriveled mess of vessels and connective tissue and parenchyma. “What he said. Right arboretum. Left mysterical. This over here? Artery to the butt.”

***

“Thanks for coming,” he says.

“What happened?” I ask. “That’s not the same jar. That’s not the same heart. That’s not a heart.”

“Was awesome. Brittney McCardle threw up after.”

“Where’s your heart?”

“Lost.”

“Lost?”

“Left it on the school bus.”

“Lost and found?”

“Didn’t know what it was. Threw it out.”

“What’s in the jar?”

“Mom bought liver. Said it would fool everyone.”

“Yeah. Almost everyone.”

“Well,” he says. “Thanks again.”

“Hey, wait,” I say. “Your mom got any more liver?”

***

Administrator, admiring jar. “Jesus. How’d you get it?”

I shrug.

“Looks funny,” he says.

I think, I’m laughing my ass off. But I say, “A couple of weeks in formaldehyde. Color changes.”

He’s looks closer . . . closer . . . “What do you call those things?”

I take the jar from the Administrator. “Right arboretum. Left mysterical. This over here . .”