 Hello, this is Erica Jorn and I'm going to be reading Open Heart. Told I am a healer, but every move is a nick into my soul. I slice the skin from the collarbone to the belly button, crack open the ribs with a saw that glints, almost with a smirk. A machine works to keep the heart alive while I open the organ to repair the damage done by cigarettes and too much beer. A spotlight on the body, bright and judging, but it feels pointed on me. The theater above, full of hawks waiting for a success or failure. One small flinch equals a punctured vessel, blood dying my shoes by the spray of my mistake. No soap can cleanse my scrambled brain. I am a bearer of bad news, each one failed on a constant slideshow in my brain. A hippocratic oath binding me to my duty. The machine's incessant beep beep until the lines go dead, butchering to save a life. Thank you.