I did as I was told, feeling lightheaded as the jock doc curled his long fingers in the dead player’s hair and lifted the head away from its body. A rush of blood spilled from the cleanly sliced neck, and a large lump of flesh—probably part of the tongue—fell back onto the stretcher. I tasted vomit at the back of my throat, swallowed hard, and closed my eyes. The case in my hands grew heavier as he placed the head inside it. He sealed the protective gel pack that lined the interior of the case over the head, then closed the lid.