Page 79 of Collateral Damage
The transition is disorienting. Usually, I come in after the chaos—once trauma’s done the first pass. I assess. I interpret. I decide what damage matters, and what might still be saved. But as they wheel Silas away, I see the faces of colleagues gracing me with looks of deep concern. I take a step to follow, but Axel’s hand is on my arm.
"You should get your ankle looked at," he says firmly.
"I know these people," I argue, but my voice sounds thin, stripped of its authority. "I can help?—"
"Dr. Morrison. You’re limping. I’m not sure if you would be helping."
I look down at my ankle, then back at the double doors. The gurney is rounding a corner, disappearing into the fluorescent gut of the hospital.
Knowing he’s right doesn’t make it any easier, but I relent and allow Axel to guide me toward a side room.
As I go through the motions of being a patient, it feels like an out-of-body experience. Suzie, an ER nurse I’ve shared coffee with, cleans the glass cuts on my hands. She’s being gentle, but I find myself critiquing her technique just to keep my mind from wandering to the operating theater.
After an X-Ray, she comes back, smiling. "Mild sprain. No fracture," she confirms my own assessment.
I answer her triage questions on autopilot. Yes, I’m warm. No, I don’t want meds. Yes, I’ll find some crutches as soon as I know Silas is okay.
When I finally limp out into the corridor, Caleb is waiting. He stands up immediately and helps me hobble to a chair.
"He’s in surgery," he says, answering the question I haven't asked yet. "Dr. Reeves. Is he any good?"
I let out a breath I feel like I’ve been holding since the cabin. “He’s the best.”
"Thank the Lord," Caleb says, eyes upward. He returns his gaze to me. “Your mother’s security detail has been stood down. She’s fine."
I release a shaky breath. "Thank you. I needed to hear that."
Caleb shifts, looking hesitant. “I don’t know how to soften this, so I’m going to rip it off fast, like a Band-Aid… Reagan wired your house to catch fire.”
The air leaves my lungs. “He did what?”
“No one was hurt,” Caleb adds quickly. “Structural assessment pending. It’s repairable.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. As long as no one was harmed. It’s just a house.”
And I mean it. The manor. My things. It all feels like it belongs to a different person, a different life. None of it matters as much as the man behind those double doors.
"Nothing that happened was his fault," I say, my voice finally finding its edge again. “But he’ll be blaming himself.”
A flicker of grim respect crosses Caleb's face. "Yeah," he says quietly. "He always does."
Nineteen
Silas
The first thing I notice is the ceiling. It’s white. Still. No smoke. No wind. Just the steady, rhythmic pulse of a room that doesn't hold the threat of the mountains.
The second thing is the particular smell of a hospital—antiseptic and recycled air, and the sharp, chemical undertone that signifies a controlled environment.
The third thing is my father's hand resting on my forearm. The weight is firm, anchoring me to the bed.
I turn my head to look at him. It costs more than it should; the movement is sharp against the injury in my shoulder, a dull throb radiating from the site of the surgery. Dad is sitting beside the bed in a chair he’s pulled close, his reading glasses pushed up into his graying hair, a paper coffee cup going cold on the tray beside him.
"There he is," he says quietly.
My mouth is desert-dry. "How long?"
"Six hours." He reaches for the water on the tray, holding it steady so I can find the straw. "Surgery went well. Shoulder’s pinned. Arm's clean."
