Page 49 of Collateral Damage
I peel back the covers. Fumbling as I add another sweater, my fingers stay stiff and numb. As warm as I can be, I go in search of him.
Banging from outside alerts me immediately to his location. The snow has paused, but the wind still howls against the timbers. I duck into the bedroom, locate my hat, gloves, and scarf, and open the door.
I catch sight of him balanced on the roof peak, a dark, solitary silhouette against the relentless gray of the sky. One boot is braced against the chimney cap, his body angled sharply as he hammers at something. My heart leaps to my throat, a physical, sickening jolt. I’ve seen too many patients come through the ER after falls like this—shattered femurs, fractured skulls, one man paralyzed from the waist down after slipping on ice-covered shingles. Winter roof work is how orthopedic surgeons stay busy, and right now, my stomach is in a knot so tight it hurts to breathe.
Rather than distract him, I retreat inside, stripping off my coat. I sink onto the couch, closing my eyes, clenching my hands together until my knuckles ache.
Lord, keep him safe up there. Please. Don't let him slip, don't let him fall. I know he's capable and trained, but the ice doesn't care about his training. Please protect him.
I swallow hard, my voice barely a breath against the quiet of the room. “We need more men like him in this world,” I whisper. “I need him in my world.”
The faint creak of the door makes my eyes fly open. Silas is standing on the threshold. He’s dusted in snow, his tactical jacket white with frost, his shoulders rigid. The look on his face—raw, exposed, and exhausted—tells me he heard.
"Chimney's all set," he murmurs.
My throat tightens as heat floods my face. "Perfect." I attempt a smile, though it feels brittle. "Quite the handyman."
The corners of his eyes wrinkle in a tired, returned smile. "Jack of all trades, master of none."
I give him a skeptical look, pleased to have something else to discuss. "I doubt that. You seem to excel at whatever you tackle. Except, of course, accepting that you have limits."
He shifts his weight, rubbing the back of his neck; he looks older, suddenly, weighted down by a fatigue sleep couldn't possibly fix. “You sound like my father.”
I nod. “Then I hope he’s also told you to get more sleep.”
He gives me a wry smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “Regularly,” he says. “I’ve been disappointing him for years.”
I shake my head, a flash of frustration cutting through my concern. “Leaders tend to treat exhaustion like a badge,” I say. “It usually just means they haven’t learned how to set boundaries.”
His brow knits. “I didn’t realize you had a degree in psychology.”
“I don’t need a degree to notice you’re a strong leader who cares deeply for each member of his team.”
He looks away, his jaw tightening into a hard, stubborn line. “Strong leaders should know better than to put their team members into situations they can’t handle.”
So that’s what’s been eating him. He blames himself for the choices his team makes. I want to bridge the distance, to pull him back from the edge of that guilt, but he’s walled himself in. “I’m going to say this as kindly as I can, Silas. You can’t control every outcome.”
He holds my gaze, his eyes dark and haunted, the weight of his responsibility hanging in the air between us.
“In medicine, we learn early that trying to eliminate every mistake actually makes us less effective,” I say quietly. “You start seeing threats in every shadow.”
He nods once, slowly. “Same lesson in basic,” he says. “Tunnel vision.”
“So you’ve learned you can’t save everyone?”
Silas’s jaw stays locked, his shoulders immovable.
“I know that if I let my guard down, people get hurt,” he says, his voice flat with resolve. “I know that I’m responsible for my team. I know I’m accountable to God for all of them.”
I study him for a moment, the quiet certainty in his words settling somewhere deep in my chest. I know that weight—the endless replay of decisions made under pressure, the quiet question that never quite goes away: what if I’d done one thing differently?
“That’s a heavy burden to place on yourself.”
Silas doesn’t reply for so long, I think he isn’t going to. “You said it yourself—with great privilege comes great responsibility.”
My stomach twists into knots at him throwing my father’s words back in my face.
Even if he didn’t mean to hurt me, it stings.
