Page 33 of Collateral Damage
"I—" My throat’s a desert. "I can't. I'm not... at home. I can't get there. Not for a few days at least."
"We understand," Janet says, her voice softening into professional kindness I’ve used a thousand times on my own patients' families. "We'll keep you updated every step of the way. Is there anyone local we should contact on your behalf?"
"No. There's—" My voice cracks, pathetic sound. "There's no one. Just... please call me as soon as you get the results."
I end the call. I stare at the black glass of the screen, my chest tightening until I can hear my own ribs straining. She fell. My mother fell, and I’m not there. I’ve spent my life navigating the crises of others—and I’m stuck in a mountain cabin while my own mother’s confused and scared, being poked by strangers she won't remember five minutes from now.
There’s no one else. Just me. And I’m trapped here while she’s alone and Reagan?—
The room tilts.
My lungs won’t expand properly. The air feels thin, insufficient, like the cabin’s oxygen is being sucked out by the storm. My hands are vibrating. I grip the table, the wood biting into my palms, but the panic’s already rising like a tide.
"Ava."
Silas's voice cuts through the static.
I can't look at him. If I do, I’m not the composed doctor he knows anymore. I’m just a woman who’s unravelling.
His hand touches my shoulder. "You're okay. Just breathe with me."
"I can't—" The words are strangled. "I'm not there. I should be there."
"I know." His other hand comes to my shoulder, turning me slowly to face him. He’s a solid, steady presence in the middle of my collapse. "I know. But right now, I need you to breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. With me. Ready?"
His eyes hold mine—steady, patient, like he has all the time in the world to sit here while I shatter. We breathe together—five counts in, seven counts out—until the vise around my chest starts to loosen. Until the room stops spinning.
"Better?" he asks quietly.
I nod, mortified. "I'm sorry. I don't usually?—"
"Don't." He cuts me off. "You don't need to apologize."
"I should be able to handle this better. I'm trained to stay calm in emergencies."
"So am I." His voice is a low, disciplined rasp. "But it doesn’t always work out that way.”
His eyes meet mine, and for a second, the mask slips. "Being trained for something doesn't mean you stop feeling it. Doesn't make you less human when someone you care about is in danger."
"Your mother is safe," he says. "Reagan didn’t have anything to do with this. They're taking care of her. And you being there wouldn't change the X-ray results or make her bones heal faster. You know that."
I do know that. Intellectually, I'm the doctor. But the daughter in me is breaking.
"She won't understand why I'm not there," I whisper. "On her good days, maybe. But if she's confused..."
"I know." His voice is a low rumble. "And I wish I could fix that for you. But right now, the best thing you can do for her is keep yourself safe. She'd want that, even if she can't say it."
My eyes burn. I blink hard, trying to hold it together, but the first tear escapes. Then the whole dam fails.
For a moment, Silas says nothing, then he shifts his chair closer and opens his arms. “Come here.”
I go willingly. I press my face against the rough fabric of his chest as the tears come—silent, relentless, all the fear and grief I've been holding back finally breaking free.
Silas
This is supposed to be comfort. Nothing more.
Except her breathing is starting to even out, the tears are slowing, and she still hasn't pulled away. Neither have I.
