Page 86 of Collateral Damage
"Forty-five acres," I rasp. "Give or take."
She takes it in without comment, insisting on using her crutches to navigate the track toward the main house. I match her slow, uneven tempo, my good hand loose at my side, my right arm locked in the abduction brace. I’m seeing the ranch through her eyes for the first time in years—the barn, the stables, the low, single-story farmhouse that looks like it grew out of the landscape rather than being imposed on it.
I open the door, and the silence of the prairie is instantly shattered.
“Dr. Barbie!”
Delilah is a streak of red hair and a 1950s house dress, screaming as she charges toward us. Before I can intervene, Ava is enveloped in a cloud of Chanel and a hug so tight she gasps.
“Del—”
I don’t get to finish. Delilah detaches from Ava and throws her arms around my waist, half-sobbing. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again!”
With my right side immobilized, I’m defenseless. I do my best to extricate myself from her limpet-like grip with my left hand. “I’ll try.”
She detaches, eyes wet and frowning through lashes she probably pasted on at dawn. She does a near-perfect Yoda. “Do or do not. There’s no try.”
Ava chuckles, a sound that does more for my pain levels than the narcotics. “Ah, now I do know that reference. But I’m still trying to figure out who Sarah Connor is. Whoever she is, I need to thank her—and you—for the inspiration. I’m not sure I would have thought to… what was it, ‘Go full Sarah Connor’ without you.”
Delilah grins, then swings her gaze to me, her expression softening. “This is so epic. You. Dr. B—” She catches herself and gives Ava a flawless, old-school curtsy. “Ava.”
Ava smiles warmly, her gaze moving over the timber beams and the warmth of the entrance. “So this is Jericho.”
“Surely is, ma’am,” Zack’s steady Texan drawl comes from the hallway. He looks at me, his face turning serious. “Sorry to tear you away, but we have a few things that need your attention, boss.”
I glance at Ava, the protective instinct screaming at me not to leave her side. But she just waves her hand. “Go. I’ll be around.”
I pause. Every cell in my body wants to stay right here, beside her.
It takes all my willpower, but I nod and turn away with Zack, acutely aware of the quiet, disorienting fact that she’s finally here—inside the part of my life no one else has ever really touched.
Ava
I’m still mentally calculating when Silas is due for his next dosage when Delilah presses the back of her hand to her forehead, a dramatic, stage-ready swoon.
“Alas, I must away," she sighs, though her eyes are already darting toward the hallway. "I have a mildly catastrophic, extremely illegal-looking but technically ethical encryption anomaly currently trying to mate with our firewall.” She brightens instantly, a manic spark in her gaze. “If I don’t stop it, it’ll spawn baby glitches, and I’m just not emotionally prepared for that level of chaos today.”
“I can wait for Silas,” I say, shifting my weight. The rubber grips of my crutches creak against the floorboards. “Just show me where I can?—”
“No way!” She tosses her head, her red hair catching the overhead LED light like spun copper. “Axel can show you around. He’s much better at the guided tour anyway. He was here from the beginning. Same as Caleb and Luke.”
I follow her, the rhythmic thump-slide of my crutches echoing through the house. We head toward a door marked with a stark red cross—a jarring bit of minimalism against the warm hardwood of the hallway. She knocks twice and pushes it open without waiting for an invitation.
“Axel? Can you take Ava for the grand tour?”
Axel’s back is a broad wall of charcoal wool as he stands at a monitor. He mumbles a "yes" without turning, his attention fixed on a scrolling feed of vitals.
I take in the space, and the air here is different—thinner, smelling of ozone and high-grade antiseptic. The clinic isn’t decorative; it’s disciplined. It’s a room designed for the worst day of someone's life. Two complete trauma bays sit under surgical lighting that hangs like skeletal, silver birds on articulated arms. Stainless surfaces gleam, reflecting the sterile white light with a clinical glare that makes me squint. There’s zero clutter. No stray gauze, no dusty corners.
It feels like a private, high-end emergency department built by someone who simply refuses to lose another person to the logistics of distance or delay. It’s not impressive because it’s expensive; it’s impressive because it’s waiting.
“Ready for that tour?”
Axel finally turns. He doesn't wait for a verbal answer, moving instead to a recessed supply closet. He pulls open the door to reveal a vertical Tetris of medical gear—spare IV poles clipped to the wall like weapons, backboards mounted with military precision. He pulls out a wheelchair and unfolds it in one smooth, practiced motion.
He lowers the footrests with a metallic clack and checks the brake tension with a quick, firm squeeze of his hands. "Sit," he says—not unkindly, just efficiently.
Moments later, the world is moving at a different level. The transition from crutches to the chair is a relief, but the hum of the wheels on the floor transmits every tiny vibration up my spine.
