Healing or Justice?

I walked into the OR and froze. My attending was operating on the drunk driver who

killed my sister three years ago. Same scar on his neck. Same tattoo.

My hands started shaking as I prepped the instruments. He was coding. I had the defibrillator

paddles in my hands. Everyone was screaming at me to shock him. But my finger hovered over that button

like it was made of lead. Time stretched into this sick eternity where I could feel

my sister's absence like a black hole in my chest. I pressed it. He lived.

Now I lie awake wondering if saving him made me a good doctor or just a coward who couldn't

face what justice really means.