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It's 1844 in Boston.

The most renowned surgeon in America is dreading going to work.

Everything's ready, Doctor.

Thank you. I'll be right there.

After a minute of staring into space, Dr. John Warren aged 66 rises

weirdly and mounts the stairs for the top floor of Massachusetts General Hospital.

On each step, he feels the grit of sand and sawdust crunching underfoot.

As he opens the door to the operating theater, he's blinded by sunshine streaming through the windows.

He tells visitors that they operate on the top floor for the abundance of light there.

It's only half true. The fact is that the screams of patients are less audible to everyone on the floors below.

Inside, the operating theater is packed with students and they rise when he enters.

Mass General is a teaching hospital and when the top surgeon in America operates,

there's never an empty seat. Then why do I feel like such a fraud? Warren thinks to himself.

Good morning. Be seated, please.

As everyone sits, he turns to the patient on the bed, a freckled red-haired Irishman named Nicholas.

His leg was crushed last week when a skittish draft horse overturned a cart on the cobblestone street.

The wound is turning purplish now and Warren has to amputate to save his life.

Nicholas is sweating heavily already. His shirt is soaked in his face slick and shiny.

...