You’re inside now, shut in a cramped room. The conditions are less than sterile. The tiled floor is far from gleaming and stacks of boxes line the walls. It seems like a joke that there a bottles of formaldehyde with ancient labels lining the shelves of a foggy glass cabinet. But it’s real. As real as the body strewn on the stainless steel table, wrapped in a bodybag, save for an arm that pokes through a ripped zipper. Dr. –– unpacks his rolling workshop toolbox as you find your footing. Out comes pliers, a bolt cutter, an old vibrating saw, scalpels, blades and several blue absorbent pads.

The procedure begins quicker than you expect. Before you can steel yourself against what you think is going to happen, Dr. –– unwraps a sterile scalpel and traces an arcing line from ear to the ear on the cadaver. You knew this was going to happen but once the scene unfolds you go into momentary shock. You question whether or not this is happening. It is.

Over the next five hours, the shock wears off. You’ve seen and heard the cracking of the rib cage, photographed the gaping void that is the brain cavity and smelled the odors of, well, the odors. It’s not normal. You’ve grown to accept what you’ve experienced as real.