“That’s the last surgery, Doctor,” says Larissa.
“Whoof,” says Doctor Zhivago, trying to stand in front of the patient’s taped-together belly. “Good thing!”
“Oh, Doctor Zhivago,” sighs Larissa, dawn blinding on snow in the tentflap behind her. “Don’t they exhaust you, the futile symbols of this crushing war?”
“Yeah,” says Doctor Zhivago, “it’s like… snow is white, but there’s blood all over the place in here, which is red. And red and white are, um, I think Communist colors. Or maybe only red is? So that’s symbolic.”
“What?” says Larissa.
“Listen, I’ve never actually read Doctor Zhivago,” says Doctor Zhivago.