The Trauma Unit on Friday and Saturday nights was an endless procession of drunks with fresh bullet wounds, people hauled off the freeway with faces smashed in from a steering wheel or windshield, and motorcycle casualties with multiple fractures. By 2 am the place would smell like booze, blood, and vomit. Doctors barking orders and people moaning in pain were a chorus against the rhythmic  sigh of sliding doors opening, and gurney wheels squeaking. The clinical rotations ignited a fire inside of Brad. These people need help. Seizing the opportunity, the 3rd year medical student would scrub into surgery every chance he got. Helping the residents by retracting the skin…