Page 16 of Collateral Damage
My phone cuts through the quiet — the obnoxious on-call tone I chose specifically to pull me from sleep.
Now, even with Silas right outside, I have to pray for strength to look at the display.
Relief shudders through me when I see the familiar digits of Johns Hopkins.
I pick up immediately.
“Dr. Morrison.”
“Ava, it’s David.” My division chief. He sounds hesitant, like he’s already weighing whether he should hang up. “I know you’re on leave. I wouldn’t be calling if this weren’t important.”
I shift my weight against the car, the cold seeping through the metal into my shoulder. Snow ticks softly against the roof.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“We admitted a former EOD tech overnight,” he says. “Long history of post-blast headaches. Now he’s reporting visual disturbances and brief lapses in awareness. MRI didn’t give us much. EEG’s borderline. Neurology’s divided on whether this is post-concussive or something more concerning.”
I close my eyes for a second, already picturing the exam room.
“You’re worried about committing him to the wrong track,” I say.
“Yes,” he replies. “And you’ve seen more of this overlap than anyone else I can reach right now. I’m not asking for a formal consult. Just your sense of where you’d push next.”
I glance toward the store windows. Silas is still outside, close enough that I can see his reflection move as he watches the lot.
“And you’re calling because you’re short next week,” I say quietly.
There’s a pause. “We are. If you were willing to come back a few days early, it would help. If not, I’ll make it work.”
My fingers tighten around the phone. I think of the patient—how hard it is to admit something is changing when you’ve already survived worse.
“I can’t give you an answer yet,” I say. “I need to check a few things first.”
“Of course,” he says immediately. “Take the time you need. Call me when you know.”
The line goes dead. I hold onto my phone for a moment longer than necessary, the cold biting, the snow steady, my thoughts already half back in a windowless room with a man who needs someone to slow down and listen.
Silas, now finished with the gas tank, opens the door and leans inside, snow dusting his coat and hair. “Do you want to get some food? Or would you rather hit the road?”
For a moment, I can’t think. Decision fatigue most likely. “I can wait.”
He nods and climbs inside. “I’m going to stop off in Fredrick and pick up a few supplies. We can grab something there if you change your mind.”
With tiredness tugging at me again, I offer a weak nod and place my phone in the cup holder as he pulls out into traffic.
We drive in silence for a while, his eyes never stilling as he glances behind us, as though checking we aren’t being pursued.
I should be grateful for his vigilance, and I am, but it’s also unnerving to be on the receiving end of protection from a man I hardly know.
My phone trills again, and I pick up without bothering to check. “Dr. Morrison.”
“Morning, Doc. Who’s the guy?”
I suck in a breath through my teeth, and Silas responds instantly. In the time it takes for me to press speakerphone, he’s pulled off the road and onto the shoulder.
I swallow past the fear and look to Silas for direction. Swiftly, he pulls out a notepad and quickly scribbles on it. I repeat verbatim.
“You shouldn’t be calling me.”
