Work Text:
Dennis always figured he would die in Nebraska; the place he loathed, and missed, and begrudgingly loved. Would he still go to heaven if he was buried in Pittsburgh, without his family’s prayers and farmhouse dirt keeping him in the ground?
In Nebraska, faith was blood.
That’s what his father used to say.
“People who walk away always come back sick,” he’d whisper, hand heavy on Dennis’ shoulder, “God recognizes His own. And He knows when the faith’s run thin.”
Faith was the life-blood of the land, woven into the soil and forced down his throat. God was everywhere, God was silent obedience. Yet, all Dennis ever knew was noise: his father’s voice loud like the lash of a rod, the constant fall of an axe against wood outside his window, the church’s aged piano wailing out of tune.
Leaving Nebraska was the quietest decision he ever made.
He prayed over it for years under the silence of night, kneeling at his bedside and asking God to show him what was good, what was right. He’d pray till his bones ached from stillness, and he had to drag his burning body under the covers. Sleep rarely came easily for Dennis, his mind drowned in dreams of hellfire, and when it did come it was never restful.
At night, he’d dream of himself as Eve. Or maybe not Eve, not exactly—but the garden was always vivid in his mind; the sky was too wide, the air too heavy, and something invisible watching him. Always watching.
He wandered among the trees, bare feet sinking into soil that smelled of wet earth and something sweeter, forbidden. A fruit hung low, unnaturally bright, and his eyes lingered too long for a child of the Lord who ought to know better.
God’s voice wasn’t loud, it wasn’t present at all. Still, something followed him. Shadows gathered at his heels.
“You know better,” they seemed to say. “You cannot touch what is forbidden. You cannot leave the path.”
In his mind, his sins arranged themselves neatly in a list, an inventory he knew by heart. He did not need temptation to fall, he had already done that long before his feet touched the soil of the garden.
His parents had always reprimanded him for sloth. He never worked hard enough, never devoted enough time to community, to the church, never helped enough around the farm. He was lazy, plain and simple. But in his heart, Dennis knew his biggest sin was wrath. Beneath his fear, and self-loathing, he was so angry. How could God make him so wrong, and leave him to suffer a purposeless life? How dare God abandon him here?
In the dream, he turned quickly, expecting the serpent, but the serpent was not there. Instead, he felt the eyes of his parents on him, felt their disappointment curling into the branches, into the flowers, into the air itself. He wanted to run, wanted to flee the garden and his failure, but the path stretched endlessly, and he could see anything beyond the horizon. He tried to cover himself, though he wasn’t sure why, and realised he was naked in more ways than one. His soul, his morality, was unearthed for all to see. But there was no one there but him
He woke with the taste of fruit on his tongue, his voice stuck in his throat, and a lingering warmth in his chest that was shame and longing all at once.
His fingers immediately went to the cross at his throat, and rubbed it until the cold metal reminded him he was alive, that he was still tethered to the lands, still human, still redeemable. But even the cross could not erase the weight of his sins. And he knew no one, not even the suffering, could stay in the Garden of Eden forever.
As he stared up at his cracking ceiling, sweat stuck to his forehead, he knew he had two options. Die here, and feel alone his whole life. Or escape, and be alone but free.
It was winter when his decision was made. Spring when it was final. And almost autumn when he finally ran.
He packed only what he could carry on his back without waking anyone. An old bible stacked carefully at the bottom of his bag, a few pieces of clothing folded tight, cash he had saved up secretly over years of odd jobs around town, his cross tucked beneath his shirt.
The floorboards barely winced as he left, as if they knew he had to escape silently to survive the night. In the silence of his exit, Dennis felt for the first time that God was watching him fondly, letting him leave without a trace.
He was outside the town’s border by first light.
He’d memorised the acceptance letter already, he didn’t need to look at it again to know where he was going. Pittsburgh.
Hitchhiking wasn’t smart, but he had no car, and bus tickets were an expense he was desperate to avoid. The days that followed went by in a haze. Nebraska slipped away from him. He wasn’t quite sure how many cars he got in and out of in the days that followed, how far he had travelled on foot, what he had offered in exchange for a night of two in a motel room.
Sometimes he woke unsure of where he was, the ceiling too low or the car’s rumble unfamiliar to his ears. But he soon got used to the constant unknowns. He had never left his town, but feeling unsure came naturally to him.
He still prayed, when he could. Thanked God for keeping him safe on his pilgrimage, and begged for the next passing car to be a good samaritan and not a monster. He hated it. Hated the way religion clung to him like a sickness. The way he reached for comfort in scripture even when alone. He loathed it, and needed it too, like all ships need an anchor.
Eventually he arrived in Pittsburgh, but the sting in his stomach never evaporated like he’d hoped. The years passed in a blur of poor paying jobs, bad bosses, skyrocketing rent, muttered scripture and cafeteria food.
One time, near the end of a double waiting shift, when his mind had started to blur and ache, a customer had put their hand on his forearm, flashed the rolls of cash in his wallet and asked Dennis is he would be willing to join him outside, in the alley, when his shift ended.
The man's grip had been too warm, too tight, and the curl of his smile devilish in its coy disguise. In Dennis’ dreams, it was always more of a claw than a hand—nails digging into pale, unmoving flesh—but he knew that was just his mind playing tricks.
He had turned the man down, gently, but it took a second too long to form the words. Each syllable had to claw its way out of his throat, bundling up in his mouth like a last line of defense against an omnipotent enemy.
It would have made his rent, with some left over by the looks of it, but still he had refused. Sometimes, late at night when the chill bit at his heels and caressed his neck, he let himself acknowledge that if it happened again he would say yes. On the coldest nights, he hoped that man came back.
He lived through hell to get himself to Pittsburgh, and survived it again to get his degree, but medicine was its own devil. For the first time, it seemed like the universe could be held together by knowledge instead of fear. A certainty other than God entered his life, and demanded constant attention.
Medicine became his new doctrine of truth. But he still wore his cross like a permanent brand.
As he approached his final year, survival narrowed into something sharp and fleeting.
The job he relied on vanished first, cut hours that never came back, then turned into no hours at all. When his apartment went, it went quickly. One deadline missed. A lock changed. His belongings reduced themselves once again to what fit in a single bag.
The first night outside, it rained heavier than it had in months. The world was laughing at him, he was sure, punishing him for thinking he could outrun his destiny of failure. The eternity of sin he always dreamed about. Empty benches became his, hopefully, temporary home address, at least until he could afford to splurge on a tent.
Sat in his lectures, he forced himself not to think about it all, to focus all his energy on his memory and studying.
He tried to make it all work. Took odd jobs when he could, stretched meals thin, slept less, prayed more. But final-year rotations did not bend for poverty. Hospitals did not really care where, or when, he slept, only that he showed up clean, on time, awake and capable.
He worked hard to ensure he never looked anything but professional. But as meals became fewer and further between, it grew harder to smile through it all. He was grateful for the PTMC, they seemed eternally more lenient in regards to poor moods than anywhere else he had been stationed. But still, he’d rather his doctoral review say quiet and pleasant than moody and a bit fucked up.
So he pushed on through his aching bones. He endured. Tired was standard, hunger was standard, he could work through both.
“You look like shit,” Trinity stage-whispered, leaning against her workstation and peering over at the chart on Dennis’ screen. “Respectfully.”
He huffed out a half-hearted laugh. “Yeah, well. You should see the other guy.”
The joke fell flat, even to his own ears.
“There is no other guy, Huckleberry. It’s just you. You’re losing the fight against this shift and we’re barely busy.”
It was never quiet in the ED, but the slower moments felt harder than the rushes. They gave Dennis a moment to feel his body again, and realise how much he had deprived himself of. If he stopped for too long, his body would give up. So it was better to stay in constant motion, find something or someone to busy himself with.
He forced a smile across his face and stuffed his hands into his pockets, fingers curling tightly around nothing. “Final year. It’s meant to hurt, right?”
Trinity studied him for a beat too long, then pushed off the desk. “If you pass out before midday,” she said, “I’m writing overdramatic in your chart.”
He managed an actual smile at that, and an awkward nod.
“Ok, fair.”
Trinity didn’t walk away immediately.
“Eat something,” she said, tapping the edge of the desk with one finger. “You’re no use to us if you drop.”
“I’m not going to drop.”
She gave a small, unimpressed hum. “Sure.”
He shifted his weight. He had nothing with him, no money to buy anything. And Dennis was sure the communal coffee pot was not the type of sustenance Trinity had in mind. “I will. In a minute.”
She nodded once, like she didn’t entirely believe him but wasn’t going to fight him on it. Dana’s voice cut through the department before he could attempt to change the subject himself.
“Level One incoming. Child hit by a car. ETA 3 minutes”
“Trauma Room Two is free!”
The kid died. Barely five minutes after they entered the ED, wheeled in covered in blood and breathing too shallow, haunted eyes struggling to stay open, they’re gone. It’s always hard to lose a kid, but this one stung more than normal, because they should have been able to save them. The answer was so simple.
It’s hard, Robby reminded them, head hanging low as they gathered for a moment of silence, to save people with such strict religious restrictions on their care.
Jehovah's Witnesses. No blood transfusions.
Dennis' hands felt strange at his sides. Too light. Useless. They itched to do something, to restart compressions, to push and prod. He pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth and forced himself to inhale, to selfishly bring air back into his own lungs.
What a pointless death.
The thought came to him sharp and insistent.
We had the blood. We had it.
His fingers drifted to his collar before he was fully aware of the movement. They slipped beneath the neckline of his scrubs, searching, scouring, and finally finding the thin chain at the base of his throat. He pulled the cross free in a practiced motion, the metal feeling cool against his skin.
He hadn’t worn it outside his shirt at work before. Not once.
It felt heavy in his palm, cold from being ignored all day. He rubbed his thumb over it, back and forth, like friction might generate something useful. An answer. A reason. As if it may call down God to explain the death Himself. To explain how He could let his people suffer.
There was no response, but Dennis already knew there was no God in Pittsburgh. Only policies. Only parents signing forms. Only people making rules for others and suffering no consequences.
“You good?” Robby’s voice cut through the haze, closer than Dennis had expected. Around him the ED had moved on; new patients entered, people talked and cleaned and showed no signs of paralysis. No one else had remained stationary like him. The room was bare except for Dennis, Robby and the child.
Dennis nodded automatically, but didn't look up. “Yeah.”
Letting the silence float over them for a moment, Robby’s gaze dropped to the chain at his neck. Carefully, as if speaking to a nervous patient, the man asked:
“Are you still—” He swallowed hard around nothing. “Do you practice?”
Dennis shrugged, mind drowning among too many thoughts that he couldn't bear to name. “There is no God in Pittsburgh,” he said, because that felt simpler than everything else he was feeling. “Just people.”
The attending just hummed, and Dennis couldn’t decide if he meant it as an agreement or an expression of concern. Under Robby’s constant gaze, he felt like he was locked in a confessional, though he had not been in many—too many—years. It was a forgotten, but not unfamiliar, feeling.
“My parents were like that, y’know.”
“...I didn’t know you were a Jehovah's Witness.”
“I'm not. We weren’t. Just— they were like that. Anti-medicine, and all. Never got a check-up till I left home. Barely knew medicine existed at all.” Dennis almost laughed at that, sharp and bitter, as if suddenly aware of how absurd it sounded: a soon-to-be doctor growing up unaware. “They thought we would just keep living well by the grace of God, or something like that.”
If Robby intended to say something, Dennis didn’t give him the chance to. The exhaustion had reached his mouth now, and he couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out.
“Guess I always sorta knew that wasn’t enough, though," he said, teeth gritted around the words. “I have four older brothers, but I used to have five. A blood transfusion would have done Elijah a lot more good than our prayers. Surprised only one of us died, with how careless we were on the farm.”
Finally, he met Robby’s eyes, only to find them stretched wide and haunted, his mouth set into a firm line. The stark-white, overhead lights caught in the sweat on his temple. Up close, Dennis could see the muscles in his jaw tighten and set.
“How old?”
“He was nineteen, at the time, a few weeks away from his birthday.”
“No, Whitaker, how old were you?”
Oh. “Fourteen.”
“You still talk to them? Your parents?”
He considered, for a moment, the implications of telling the whole truth, and settled on, “It’s been a while.”
A long sigh filled the room. Robby’s eyes closed shut for a moment, just a moment, as his head ducked down as if in prayer. A hand reached for Dennis’ shoulder, paused midday air, and settled finally on his upper arm. Robby’s hand was warm against his cool skin, cold from too little sleep and too little food for a 12 hour shift.
“I’m sorry. That’s a hell of a thing to go through. He—Elijah—he deserved better than that. So did you.”
The hand on his arm tightened slightly, a pleasant pressure.
“Go home, Dennis.”
Eyes snapped up to meet Robby’s gaze. The first name was new, but the demand surprised him more.
“What? No. Dr Robby, I’m fine. I promise, just, needed a second to—”
“This isn’t a punishment, Whitaker. You look dead on your feet, there is only about an hour left of your shift. Go home, eat something, get some sleep. Set up a meeting with Kiara, if you’d like. Just get some rest, ok? It will make both of us feel better.”
His tone carried an air of completion, as if Dennis had no choice in the matter. And he supposed that was true. Who was he really? Just a student floating around amid professionals, hoping not to step on anyone's toes.
He’d fucked it all up, bringing up Elijah. Dr Robby didn’t care. He needed a functional MS4, not someone who weaped every time the inevitable happened. And now he was paying for his weakness.
He’d planned to get drinks in the park after work, warm his body with a few free beers before braving the night. The shelters were always full by now, especially in the winter time with the snow and rain rolling in at a steady pace. Running his mouth meant had lost the promise of that phantom warmth.
“I need to finish charts, do handovers. I can’t just leave. Please, Dr Robby. I need—” he stopped himself before more truths could leak out from between his teeth. “Please.”
He’d spent his whole life begging; to God, to his family, to strangers on the street, and now to Robby. Everytime he asked for love, for help, the world was silent. Just this once, he hoped it wouldn't be.
But hope was futile.
“Go home.”
Dennis nodded, and accepted his fate. He tried not to think about everyone staring as he left, hoping he was quick enough for no one to notice. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his old hoodie, which was worn from years of rain, he allowed his feet to drag him around the city.
Buildings passed him in a haze of familiarity. He knew each alley and park like the back of his hand. He needed sleep, but it was safer to stay on the move. So he kept walking, one shoe in front of the other, and traced shapes around the streets of Pittsburgh with his feet.
His stomach growled faintly, but he ignored it, pressing forward, letting the motion numb the ache of exhaustion. He should have pocketed some sandwiches from the hospital, no one seemed to mind as long as it wasn’t too many. The communal coffee pot only went so far in masking his hunger. Once the caffeine wore off he was left with his nothing but his empty stomach and shaking hands. Streetlights flickered overhead, spreading long, trembling shadows across wet pavement. He kept walking. He had too.
Time stretched, the moon moved as it always did. He ducked his head as people passed, terrified of stumbling upon someone who could recognise him. A patient, a nurse, a friend.
Did he have friends? He was sure he did. Trinity called him names, and made fun of him often, but never with the venom of true hatred. She was always around when he needed her. He supposed Robby was somewhat like a friend too, a kind acquaintance if nothing else. Victoria was nice as well, as eager to please as he was. But he wondered if any of them would actually call him a friend too. It was a hard thought to stomach, and so he let it pass rather than consume him—he had to find somewhere safe to sleep.
He passed a closing convenience store, the neon sign flickering weakly under the moonlight, and paused for a second to press his back against the cold brick wall and think. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, a car horn blared, and his pulse spiked, just slightly. Breath caught in his throat. He kept walking.
Street after street, alley after alley. His feet ached, his stomach protested, but he didn’t slow.
Eventually he found himself in an unoccupied alleyway. Behind the industrial bin, he would be mostly hidden from sight. Even if he didn’t sleep much, at least he would be able to rest his body for a few hours. It would give him time to devise an apology to Robby for dumping his life story on him, for wasting time on the clock.
Dennis eased himself down onto the damp concrete, hugging his knees close to his chest. The alley smelled faintly of rot and oil, and the chill bit through his hoodie, curling around his bones. Between his skin, and his stomach, his body fell into a numbness of want. Nothing was right, so everything was. It was hard to tell what was urgent, and what was just hurt.
His eyelids grew heavier, the alley’s darkness folded around him and the constant noise of the city blurred into background noise. He counted his breaths to pass the time. A steady inhale, hold, and steady exhale. Repeat.
He swallowed down the pain just enough to allow his mind to drift to the space between sleep and wake.
Hours later, or many minutes, a clear voice pierced through the sanctity of his alley way.
“Hello? Is someone down there?”
The sound started him, a man’s voice, unexpectedly close, and caused him to jerk back against the industrial bin. He cursed himself, and drew his knees closer to his chest, trying to make himself even smaller, hoping to disappear from sight. The voice felt familiar, though he couldn’t quite place it.
“I’m with the PTMC street support team. I’ve got some snacks, some water. Can I come to you, make sure you’re doing ok?”
Dennis’s eye shot open, his hand clamped around his mouth to stop any air from leaking out. Maybe if he stayed silent, they would think the noise was just a rat and move on. His heart thumped painfully like a drum against his chest, loud enough that he feared the stranger would be able to hear it too.
“Hey,” the voice said again, gentler this time, but still clear enough to hear over the dribble of passing traffic. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not police, just a doctor. Just checking in. Can I—can I hand you some water?”
It was cruel that he had not prayed earlier, when he had lost that young girl. His mother would have scolded him for that, if she knew. But as the man’s voice grew closer, he found himself reciting prayers he only half remembered, barely as loud as an exhaling breath. He begged for forgiveness, for solitude, for freedom, for the power to disappear. He could not be found, he did not deserve it.
For a moment, total silence returned, and he let his hands fall from his face, and settled them back around his knees. But it did not stay quiet for long, a moment later he heard the crunch of boots on wet concrete. A careful approach.
Dennis turned his face into the wall next to him, and pulled his hood down further, hiding his face from the moonlight and any lingering gazes approaching. The boots stopped a few steps away. A shadow stretched across the alley, then paused.
“My name is Dr Jack Abbot. You got a name, kid?”
His heart lurched into overdrive, hammering against his ribs like it wanted out. Dr. Abbot. The man who he served under on the night shift. The man who walked into the ED without an ounce of fear, who carried himself with the certainty only a soldier could display. The man who knew who he was.
In his mind's eye, Dennis saw his whole life burning down. The hospital wouldn’t keep someone from the street. They couldn’t waste one of their med-student positions on someone who could barely keep themselves afloat.
He tried to shrink into himself, curling inwards, digging his fingers into his knees until his knuckles ached. I can’t. I can’t. Not him. Not now. He had survived on scraps and long shifts and alleyways, and now someone who barely knew him as more than a passing thought, a vague memory, was staring down at the broken, hungry, exhausted version of himself. The part of his life he vowed never to let leak into his professional side.
He had failed. He was always destined to, in the end, he just never thought it would be so pathetic to be found out like this. To be seen as he truly was: alone.
He shook his head slightly, refusing to answer, as if to say he was no one.
“Ok, that's ok, kid. You don’t need to tell me anything. You can just nod and shake your head for now. Ok? Think you can do that for me?”
There was a gentleness in his voice that Dennis had only ever heard in the ED, whispered to vulnerable children who didn’t know what was happening. It was strange to think of himself as that, vulnerable and scared. He’d been alone for so long he wasn’t afraid of the night anymore, just fatigued. Bored. Drained.
His chest ached, lungs tight as he pressed his forehead against his knees, hoping the darkness could cover him. He willed himself to disappear, or for Jack to vanish into thin air like an amateur magician.
Fabric rustled, Jack moved closer. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
Jack extended something toward him: a small, plastic rectangle. On instinct, Dennis reached out, fingertips brushing the edge before he took it, careful not to lift his head too much.
It was Abbot’s hospital ID, the plastic smooth and cold against his palm. The photo stared back at him, unmoving, familiar eyes. It was meant to be a show of good faith, he supposed, evidence he was who he said he was. He handed it back without looking long.
Dennis just nodded. He could answer a few simple questions if it made the man go away.
“Ok. Thanks, kid.” The tone of complete sincerity punched Dennis in the gut. He swallowed around the bubble of guilt that was building in his throat. “Let’s start simple. Are you hurt anywhere? Any cuts, bruises, soreness?”
Dennis shook his head.
“Fever, feeling too warm? Sweaty despite the weather?” Another head shake.
“Been eating enough?”
A small, embarrassed blush bloomed on his cheeks, then a tiny shake of his head unaccompanied by a shrug.
Jack crouched a little lower, adjusting his prosthetic into a better position as he did, careful not to loom too close. “Okay, I can help a bit with that. Got some protein bars and snacks in my bag that should help a little. How about water, brother? You had any water in the last few hours?”
He nodded.
“Good, that's good. You on any meds—anything you need? Insulin, heart stuff, maybe an asthma inhaler? …Anything non-prescription you might be taking?”
“No.” He barely whispered it, voice hoarse from the cold.
Jack gave a small, patient hum, and reached into his bag, producing a plastic water bottle. A handful of protein bars came next, which were placed close enough to Dennis for him to reach easily, but not so close that Jack had to move. The barrier of space Jack was allowing him was obvious, and he guessed he should be glad for it. Even if a small part of him longed for the warmth of touch.
“And, I gotta ask, kid. Are you over 18? There are plenty of shelters and helplines I can set you up with, but I have to know which direction to point you in.”
Dennis swallowed hard, throat tight, and barely managed a nod. Over eighteen. Legally an adult. He had been for a long time now, though it hardly felt like it. He was more of a ghost than human these days.
A small smile crossed the man’s face. “Alright. Good. That makes things a little easier. You’ve been out here long?”
Too long. Too long to admit. He shook his head instead.
Jack's eyes scanned the alley before falling back onto Dennis. “It’s pretty cold this week, yeah? Rain came through last night?”
Dennis’ fingers flexed and reached for the waterbottle, fingers shaking in the exposed air. “Yeah,” he whispered, offering no other reply.
Jack just nodded “Okay. Water and some food first. Then we can figure out a warm place to get you safe for a few hours before more rain comes back. Sound good?”
Numbed fingers fumbled over the bottle, shaking so violently from nerves and the cold that he couldn’t seem to twist the cap. He muttered a sharp, breathless curse, Nebraska twang slipping through despite himself.
“Here,” Jack said softly, reaching forward to steady the bottle, though Dennis didn’t hear him over the sound of his own beating heart. His hand brushed Dennis’ suddenly enough to startle him, eyes shooting up on instinct and causing his hood to slip back slightly.
The faint glow of the alley light caught the curve of his jaw, the depth of his undereye bags. Under its faint, fading light, he was exposed to the elements. And Jack. The man’s gaze widened slowly, a violent flicker of recognition bloomed in the space between them.
“Whitaker?”
None of his limbs moved, no matter how hard he willed them to stand and run away. The connection between his mind and body had been severed completely hours ago.
“Fuck, kid. What are you doing here?”
Though his mouth opened, no words came out. His teeth were chattering, small betrayals of his nerves that he couldn’t stop.
“Okay,” he said, slower. “You’re not bleeding. That’s good. You’re not high.” A brief pause. “You don’t look drunk.”
Dennis blinked, trying to focus on the words floating around him. The questions were so clinical, assessing, and completely unexpected. In a moment of confusion, surprise, Jack seemed to slip entirely into doctor mode.
“Did you get jumped?” Jack pressed. “Something happened after you left the hospital?”
A subtle shake of his head.
“You live nearby?”
A shrug. Not exactly untrue, he lived wherever he could.
“Are you living out here?”
That one forced a reaction. Dennis’ spine stiffened, but still the words didn’t come.
“C’mon, Whitaker— Dennis, right? You gotta give me something. Someone to call.”
Giving up on giving him space, Jack crowed in closer, taking off his own thick jacket and draping it over Dennis’ shoulders. The sudden warmth seeped into his skin, causing a small gasp to escape his mouth. Too much, too soon, yet not enough all at once. Larger hands engulfed his own, rubbing slightly to generate some heat in his fingers. The sudden shift in temperature hurt as much as it helped.
“You’re freezing, kid. You planning on sleeping here?”
Dennis shook his head, but it was slow, almost imperceptible. It was a pointless lie, but he desperately wanted to ward off the worry etching itself onto the attending's face.
“Ok, fine. Water first.” Jack nodded toward the bottle still clutched in Dennis’ hands. “You’ve got to hydrate before we figure out anything else.”
Hands trembling, Dennis let go, and Jack caught the bottle gently, twisting the cap with ease. “Here,” he said, tilting it to Dennis’ lips. “Sip. Take your time.”
Once the water had coated his throat, a brief, but welcome, peace to his aching body, a single sentence came to mind, “Please don’t tell anyone.”
Jack’s hands stayed on the bottle for a moment longer, before setting it down on the wet concrete beside Dennis. He groaned slightly, readjusting his prosthetic leg again to sit at a more comfortable angle, and Dennis cursed himself for making the man sit on the floor with him.
When Jack spoke again, his voice was calm, low, the tone of a man who had heard countless scared people beg for him to keep their secrets. “Kid… You know as doctors we are mandated reporters—”
“—Only for children and vulnerable people. I’m not a kid.”
“I know,” Jack said, voice softer now. “But you’re out here, on your own in the middle of winter, that counts as vulnerable, Whitaker. You know that. And more than that, no med-student in my hospital will ever go cold on my watch. I take care of my people, kid.”
“I can take care of myself.” He pressed his forehead to his knees, scrunching his eyes closed. God, he sounded like such a child, even to his own ears. He was such a cliche.
The silence dragged, and warped under the weight of the night. For a moment, Dennis felt a pang of obscure sadness. He missed the stars. The entire galaxies he could see through the clear air in Broken Bow. He thought back to his childhood, and the nights he spent curled up on his roof, gazing up at the moon. The night, the cold, used to be a secret haven he longed for. Now, it was his purgatory. Stuck between home and the freedom that awaited life after med school.
Jack sighed, long and hard, and reached out tentatively to place his hands over Dennis’ again.
“I have to call someone. Family, friend, anyone. Do you have anyone I can reach tonight?”
Though the thought of lying passed his mind, his brain couldn’t seem to think of anything worth saying. So, Dennis just shook his head slowly, ashamed.
“No.”
Jack’s shoulders tensed briefly, then he pulled his phone from his back pocket. “I’ll call Robby. We need to get you checked out at the hospital.”
Panic rose fast and corrosive, burning Dennis’ throat before he could swallow it back down.
“No—please, Dr. Abbot. You can’t—no one can know. I can’t lose this position.” The words tumbled over each other, thin and frantic. “I’m in my last year. It’s just a few more months and then I’ll get a real paycheck. It’s only till then. Please. I’m so close.”
Jack didn’t flinch at the desperation. But he didn't scold it either. “Woah, woah. Nobody’s taking anything from you.” His tone stayed even, grounded. “You’re cold, you’re hungry, and you’re not thinking straight. Two of those I can fix right now. Let me do that.”
Then, the man smiled, so briefly Dennis almost missed it. But he was sure it had been there for just a moment.
“Robby would kill me if he found out I left his favorite MS freezing in an alley.”
“I’m not his favorite.” The protest was automatic, barked. “He’s mad at me.”
A faint huff of disbelief passed Jack’s lips. “Kid, that’s not possible. Robby’s halfway obsessed with you. He’s already drafting a hundred letters to shove you into whatever hospital you want, though I’m sure he’s hoping you want to stay here. If he was being pissy, it wasn’t at you. That’s just his default setting when he’s stressed. Happens when you get old.”
“He sent me home.”
“He probably had a good reason.” Jack’s jaw tightened briefly, eyes dancing around the brick wall behind Dennis’ head for a moment, mind going somewhere else. “I heard about the kid. Losing someone like that… it sticks. Makes everyone harsher than they mean to be.”
He thought back to Robby and the hospital, the piercing smell of disinfectant, the constant drill of monitors. In truth, Robby hadn’t been harsh at all. If anything, he had been kinder than Dennis had expected—and yet he still felt scorned. It hurt to be turned away like a failure, to be looked at plainly and have it decided that you weren’t strong enough to remain.
“Are you— are you religious, Dr Abbot?”
The man’s eyes traced the outline of his face, looking everyone but into his eyes. Eyebrows furrowed. Hands tightened over his own.
“No, not anymore. Not for a long time.”
After a moment of pause, Jack reached for the water bottle again, helping Dennis take a few more steady sips. When his voice came back it was coarse.
“Are you?”
The question, though simple, stumped his mind. He had never truly believed, not like his brothers did. And while they never said it explicitly, he knew his parents had sensed his wayward mind from childhood. Their reprimands were always stricter with him, his visits for penance more often.
You must work harder, Dennis. The Lord sees your laziness as a rejection of Him.
He could recite the prayers and memorise the psalms, kneel at the church altars or in their farmhouse kitchen, and still never feel it the way they did. Maybe the devil was in his heart, like the congregation all whispered about, or maybe God simply had no time for his salvation. Faith had always been something he wore, not something he owned. And yet, the thought of life without it made him feel hollow, like something was missing.
The first time he skipped church on purpose had felt like a horror story. He cried for hours and begged for forgiveness through pained sobs. But the second time had felt closer to a success, the tears remained but he did not pretend to regret it in his nightly prayers. And when he let men kiss him, touch him in the dark, he felt firsthand what it meant for the body to be an extension of the self, and not just the Lord’s will. Terror became desire. The soul became the body.
He still prayed for his parents, his brothers, and for himself on occasion. He did not believe in God’s love, but he did believe in hell. So he asked God to spare his brothers, the ones who remained, and for Him to not let his own sins reflect badly on them.
“I’m not sure anymore.”
The words settled between them, fragile as glass. Jack didn’t rush to fill the silence. He only nodded once, like that answer made perfect sense
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s usually how it goes.”
Dennis let out something that almost sounded like a laugh. “That’s not very reassuring.”
“Wasn’t meant to be. I know you’re not looking for some religious council right now, Whitaker. And if you were, it sure as hell wouldn’t be from me.”
And that was true, Dennis supposed all he really wanted was someone to talk to. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had simply listened to him, outside of work at least.
“I still pray sometimes,” Dennis admitted, hand going for his collar but not reaching for his cross. “Just… in case.”
“In case hell’s real,” Jack said quietly.
Dennis’ eyes flicked up.
Jack didn’t look surprised, and it hadn’t sounded like a question. A tone of certainty coated his words. “That’s the version that usually sticks. Damnation, hellfire.”
Shame crawled under Dennis’ skin.
“I don’t think you’re going to hell,” Jack said plainly.
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” he agreed, softer now. “But if there is a God, I don’t think He’s keeping score on how many people pass on your shift. And I definitely don’t think He’s punishing you through Robby.”
That earned him a faint, exhausted huff. The phone was still in Jack’s hand.
“And whether you believe in God or not,” he added, thumb hovering over Robby’s name, “I believe in making sure you don’t sit in an alley all night, convincing yourself you’re damned.”
He pressed call.
“Dr Abbot please—”
“—You can wrestle with theology tomorrow,” Jack promised quietly as the phone’s ring began to echo around the alleyway. “Tonight, you’re coming somewhere warm.”
The line rang once. Twice. Dennis’ stomach twisted. Every vibration against Jack’s hand pressed a little deeper into his gut. He wanted to snatch the phone, to throw it to the ground and smash it into a million pieces. Instead, it sat in Jack's hand and rang once more.
“Brother, you better have a damn good reason to call after I’ve just fallen asleep.” The voice that erupted from the phone was gruff, slurred from sleep, and painfully familiar. From just a few words, a knot of tension unwound in his chest. It was embarrassing really, how much a little familiarity comforted him.
“I got a friend of ours who really needs your spare room tonight, thought I’d call ahead instead of breaking down your door.”
There was a pause, long enough for Dennis to sink further into Jack’s jacket and wish he had run when he had the chance. As if reading his mind, the hand that still rested on Dennis’ wrist tightened slightly.
“Who?” Robby asked, voice sharp, suddenly alert and clear.
“Whitaker,” Jack said. “Kid’s halfway to being a popsicle and could stand to gain a few pounds, but nothing that some warmth and sleep can’t fix.” Then, as an afterthought he added. “He’s set on not going to the hospital.”
The sound of rustling fabric consumed the speaker, then the small groan of someone getting up. Dennis allowed himself a brief look at Jack’s face, and honed in on the frown lines etched there.
“Ok, fuck. Did you—”
“Already tried to convince him otherwise, brother. He’s sure. Best thing to do is just get him inside.”
“I’ll set up the room. You got your key?”
“Always.”
A sigh of relief, then, “Dennis, can you hear me, kid?”
After a stray glance at Jack, as if asking for permission to speak, he replied. “Yeah, yeah I can hear you. I’m sor—”
“It’s gonna be ok. It’s all going to be ok.”
The words hit him like a rush of cold water. The simplicity cracked something open in Dennis’ chest. How dare he say that with such certainty, such completeness. The words burned a warmth inside his chest stronger than anything he had felt in a long while.
“You’re coming here,” Robby continued. “You’re going to get warm. I’ll set up the guest room. I’ll heat up some food. You’re going to sleep. And tomorrow we’ll deal with whatever big things are happening. Right now? It’s all small. It’s fixable.”
Dennis swallowed hard. “Okay.”
“Good. You’re okay, kid. We’ve got you.”
The line stayed open a second longer, like a hand resting between shoulder blades, then clicked off. The alley fell quieter again, and the cold seeped back onto his skin.
Jack slid the phone back into his pocket. “See?” he murmured. “He’s a softy for you.”
Dennis nodded, though his eyes remained wide and unfocused on the empty space where the phone was.
“Alright,” Jack said, groaning and adjusting his prosthetic to prepare to move. “Slowly now.” He stood up first, keeping one hand steady on Dennis’ arm. “Feet under you.”
Dennis pushed up. The world tilted immediately, black creeping in at the edges of his vision.
“Easy,” Jack warned, catching him before his knees could buckle. “I’ve got you.”
They waited until the dizziness ebbed, a hand constantly rubbing slowly at his arm, his shoulder, and the other bracing his elbow. Through it all, Jack didn’t rush him. His voice remained low and calm. A pleasant constant.
“Good,” he said again, like a broken record. “That’s it.”
The cold struck harder once they moved out from the industrial bin’s protection. Wind cut through the alley like a developing storm. Jack tugged the jacket tighter around Dennis’ shoulders, zipping it shut, and steered him toward the street. His car wasn’t far.
“Shotgun,” Jack directed gently. As Dennis fumbled with the handle, Jack reached past and opened it instead. Warmth spilled out into the air in waves, splashing against him like the tides.
“In you go,” Jack murmured.
He guided Dennis down into the seat, one hand shielding his head from the doorframe out of habit. The heater was already cranked. Jack pulled the seatbelt across his chest when Dennis’ fingers failed to cooperate once again. He cursed his fingers, the hands that were meant to save lives that could barely move on command. Their pale, blue hue taunted him in return.
The door shut with a solid thud, sealing out the wind.
For the first time that night, Dennis wasn’t exposed to the elements. He was safe, guarded from the returning storm. Jack rounded the hood and slid into the driver’s seat, glancing over once to make sure Dennis was still upright, still breathing steady. Still alive.
“You with me?” Jack asked quietly.
A slow nod.
“Words, Whitaker.”
“I’m with you.”
“Good.”
The car eased away from the curb, tires hissing over the damp pavement. The alley disappeared in the rearview mirror like it had never existed. First a looming cave, then a speck, then invisible to the eye.
“Thank you… for not leaving me.”
The car rolled through an intersection, the city thinning into quieter, residential looking streets. Jack’s eyes never strayed far, remaining fixed on the road ahead.
“You’re not as easy to leave behind as you think you are,” he replied, almost absently.
And Dennis didn’t trust himself to respond to that. He leaned his head back against the seat instead, eyes slipping half-closed as warmth continued to build inside the car. When sleep called his name, he let it take him.
He didn’t dream of Eve, or his parents. He didn’t dream at all. In the sudden serenity of warmth, he thought of nothing. And what a blessing that was. He supposed God had heard his prayers after all. The only thing that remained in his mind was a single word.
Safe.
“Dennis.”
His name surfaced first through the thick layers of sleep that engulfed him. Then, a gentle pressure at his shoulder. A shake.
“C’mon, bud. I know you can hear me. We’re here.”
Dennis groaned, long and low. He tried to burrow deeper into the warmth instead, turning his face toward the seat like he could bargain for five more minutes.
The hand at his shoulder didn’t go away.
“Yeah, that’s about the reaction I expected,” Jack murmured. “Open your eyes for me.”
Dennis blinked one open, then in a mess of tired limbs and muttered instructions, encouragement and words of advice, he’ll be overbearing, let him, he found himself stood in front of an unfamiliar door.
He hadn’t fully woken up yet. His body was there, but the rest of him lagged behind.
“Still with me?” Jack repeated quietly beside him, pulling a set of keys out of his pocket .
He nodded, slow and mechanical. Then the door opened with a barely audible creak. Warm light spilled into the entryway, the yellowed hue painting him from head to toe.
In the middle of it all, obstructing the light just slightly, was Robby. Dressed in tracksuit pants and worn sleep-shirt, the man still managed to look on edge. While his outfit portrayed a look of calm, his eyebrows were furrowed together in unmistakable concern, like he was reading a patient's chart.
“Hey, brother.”
“Jack. Whitaker.”
“…Hey.”
God, he didn’t expect this to be so awkward. But, he supposed, there were no social interaction laws around what to do when one of your bosses takes you to the other’s apartment in the middle of the night. At least none he knew of. Should he apologise? Thank them both?
“It’s cold,” Jack said, before anyone else could, “Let’s get the kid inside.”
Robby exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “Fuck, yeah. Come on in.”
The apartment was too big for one person, but cosy and lived in all the same. Plush rugs covered the hardwood floor, muffling footsteps and making the apartment much quieter than the world outside.
An indulgently-sized couch sagged invitingly in the living room, draped with a patchwork throw that was clearly handmade many years ago. Chairs were scattered with blankets and cushions, a small stack of books perched on the side table. The kitchen, open to the living space, smelled strongly of simmered tomatoes. A soup maybe. Nothing about it felt like the Robby Dennis knew. Yet none of it felt out of place.
In a slow, careful motion, Robby took Dennis’ overstuffed backpack, and placed it beside the couch, a strong arm guided him to sit next to it. Sinking into the cushions, Dennis had the passing thought that he would die happily here, amongst the unfamiliar warmth of Robby’s home. His eyes shut themselves on instinct.
“Hey, hey. No sleep yet. Sorry, Whit. We need food and a proper check-up first. Remember what you promised me in the car?” Jack’s voice was accompanied by a hand on his knee, shaking him slightly. Jack’s hands always seemed to linger on him, like Robby’s did.
Dennis didn’t remember promising anything in the car, but he supposed he was too tired and hungry to remember much beyond the immediate. Or maybe Jack was just lying to keep him awake a little longer.
“You said no hospital.” The words crawled out of Dennis’ throat.
Robby hummed, and joined Jack in front of him, engulfing his whole worldview. “No hospital,” he agreed, “But only if you let me take a look at you.”
“You questioning my judgement, Robinavich?” Jack snarled without any heat behind the words.
“Just a second opinion.”
“I’m ok, just. Just tired. A little sore, maybe, but that's just from the cold. Nothing I can’t deal with. It used to get way colder than this back home. This— this is nothing. Really.”
“Nebraska, right? That’s where home is?” Robby asked, as his hands reached out slowly to grab his wrist, checking his pulse with practiced care.
He shrugged. “I guess.”
“I’ve never been, what’s it like?”
Dennis knew what Robby was doing, distracting him with questions while wandering hands checked his vitals the best he could. A stethoscope appeared from nowhere and pushed at his chest, searching for answers Dennis’ mouth wouldn’t give.
“Quiet, mostly. Lots of… space. I don’t know. It’s been a while.”
Robby frowned, but didn’t speak. Jack had disappeared while he wasn’t looking, leaving just the two of them.
“Are you going to ask?”
Robby considered him with a tilted head. “Do you want me to?”
Dennis shrugged again, the action coming too naturally to him.
“Well, all I know is that I sent you home early tonight, and then a few hours later I’m getting a call from Abbot telling me you need somewhere to crash. Wanna connect those dots for me?”
As the older man spoke, he pulled the old patchwork blanket around him. It reminded Dennis of his grandmother's house, and all the handsewn clothes she used to make for him. Before she died, his whole wardrobe had been a mix-and-match of hand-me-downs and Granny Lee’s creations. Most of them had been left behind in Nebraska, the night he snuck out and never turned back. All he had left was the cross she had given him. It felt too heavy around his neck, but he never took it off.
Time must have passed while Dennis was stuck in his thoughts, because when he looked up, Jack had returned with a cup of tea, placing it in Dennis' waiting hands. It was still steaming, and he cradled it with both hands to absorb its warmth. It burnt a little, but the thought of letting it go hurt more. At least it gave him something to focus on, like the inhale of breath on a run.
“I’m sort of between places right now,” Dennis whispered, eyes trained solely on the ground. He couldn't bear to look either of them in the eyes now.
“How long between?” Jack asked, sitting beside him on the couch.
“Not that long. Start of fourth year? I guess I was sort of couch surfing through most of my first degree as well. But that's not really being homeless. I mean, I had a roof, most of the time.”
“Start of fourth year? Fuck, Whitaker, why didn’t you tell anyone!” Robby’s voice rose as he spoke, his hand reaching to cup the back of his own neck and scratched at the stray hairs there. Dennis could tell he was resisting the urge to start pacing, though he wasn’t sure why.
The question left him confused, he placed his tea down on the coffee table next to him. “It’s— It’s never affected my work.”
“That’s not what he asked, kid.” Jack sighed. “It’s not about the work. It’s about you.”
“I’m fine”
Robby scoffed. “Clearly fucking not, otherwise you’d be 10 pounds heavier and not shaking on my couch at midnight.”
“Robby”
“Sorry, sorry,” Robby said quickly, raising his hands in mock surrender at Jack’s reprimand, “but it's true, Jack. You found him in an alleyway. I can’t sit here and watch him act like there is nothing wrong with that. He’s been with us for two months and no one knew!”
Dennis flinched back at the sound, surprised more than shocked. Robby’s eyes widened at the sight as he settled himself back carefully on the ground, making himself small. An apology leaked out of the man's mouth, deep and unsure.
In the silence, Dennis’ stomach rumbled loud enough for them all to hear. He blushed, embarrassed, at the volume his body protested at.
Jack sighed, “Lets grab something to eat, yeah? We can talk after.”
“I’m not hungry”
“Whitaker.”
“You’re already giving me somewhere to sleep tonight. I don’t want to take more than I’m owed.”
That seemed to stop them in their tracks. The hand that was tracing soothing circles on his knee, which he hadn't noticed before, stopped cold. Only the sound of the apartment's heater, the low hum of warmth, could be heard.
“What does that mean?”
“What?”
“What you’re owed. What do you think we owe you?”
Dennis sighed. “Look, I know you have to do this. Look after your staff, make sure I don’t freeze to death.” He tried to laugh as he spoke, to lighten the tone, but neither of the mans’ frowns moved an inch. “It’s— it's kind of you. Really. More than I deserve. But I don’t have any money to pay you for food.” His fingers twisted in the fabric of his hoodie, unsure of what to say, how to explain the way his family raised him to want nothing without making it sound worse than it was. “I… I just feel like—like I’m taking up space I haven’t earned.”
“I want you here,” Robby said simply. “Jack wants you here. I want you fed. I want you warm. I want you tucked into bed in something comfortable. I want you to be well. I want you to earn nothing, and have everything.”
The words settled in his stomach like a good meal, but still he refused to believe it.
“I don’t deserve it.”
Robby leaned back slightly, letting the weight of his hands rest on his knees, his gaze steady and unflinching.
“Why?”
Dennis swallowed hard, the words scraping and clawing up from deep in his chest, the darkest caverns of his heart. “Because it’s my fault I’m alone!” His voice cracked, sharp and raw, echoing slightly against the walls of the warm apartment. “I could have stayed! I could have had a good life in Nebraska. A fucking, really good life. I could have kept my family, my home, and had food on the table whenever I was hungry. I could have become a pastor, and made my parents proud. I could have pretended to love someone, and then marry them, and have kids. But I left. I walked out. I got scared, so I came here and fucked it all up. And now I have nothing but debt, and the cold. You shouldn’t feel bad for me, because I did this to myself. I made my bed and I have to lie in it.”
He wasn’t sure when the tears came, or if they had been falling all night. But once he felt the first droplet fall from his cheeks, sinking into Robby’s old patchwork blanket, it was like he couldn’t stop them. Words bubbled over the brink of him, impossible to catch or stop.
“And now I can never go back. And I’ll be buried in Pittsburgh, and I might never go to heaven with my family. I’ll never be buried with them. And I'll never see Elijah again, or my grandma, or anyone. I’ll die in Pittsburgh, and it will all have been for nothing.”
Throwing away all his instincts, Robby crashed forward into him, wrapping his arms securely around Dennis as if he might never let go. With his arms pinned to his chest, Dennis had no choice but to let his forehead rest against the attending’s chest, his head tucked under his chin like a child. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had held him like this. Had his father done this for him? As a baby, maybe. But not in any memory he could recall. Jack’s hand reached for his back, tracing up and down in a soothing motion. Out of the echoed sound of muffled sobs, Jack’s voice emerged first.
“No one runs away from home without a good motive, kid. Don’t act like you left for no reason,” Jack whispered, “Don’t do that to yourself.”
A broken laugh, half concealed behind his struggle for air, erupted from Dennis' throat. “One time, when I was younger, I got a fever so bad I thought I was gonna die. I really thought it was over. Dad told me I wasn’t praying hard enough, that I was being punished for my disobedience to the Lord. I didn’t even know doctors existed yet, that's how far off the grid we were, so I believed him. My brothers weren't allowed to speak to me until it was over.”
“Fuck, kid,” Robby muttered into his hair.
“Maybe I was meant to die then. I’ve lived too long now and everything is falling apart."
“No,” the men spoke at once, voices stern and unyielding.
Robby’s arms tightened instinctively around him, not crushing, but unmoving. “You were a kid with a fever,” he said, voice rough in Dennis’ ear. “That’s it. A sick kid. You weren’t being punished. You weren’t being tested. You were sick. You’re allowed to be sick”
Dennis shook his head against Robby’s chest, breath stuttering. “I thought— I thought if I prayed harder it would stop.”
“And when it didn’t?” Jack asked quietly.
“I thought it was because I didn't believe enough.”
Robby pulled back just enough to place his hand in Dennis’ hair, firm at the base of his skull, making him look up and meet his eyes. There was something in them Dennis couldn’t place. It wasn’t anger, or fatigue, but something much more foreign to him.
“I am so proud of you.”
“What?”
As Dennis spoke, Jack’s hand reached around to his opposite shoulder, and drew him into his chest, letting his head fall to rest there. The steady beat of Jack’s heart, just faster than normal, pounded in his ear as an incessant reminder that all of this was real. People were here, holding him, and telling him it was all going to be ok.
“I’m proud of you,” he repeated, softer but no less certain, “because you left.”
Dennis’ brow furrowed against Jack’s chest.
“You were so brave, for so long. And you kept going, kept trying. You got yourself out of that house, across state lines. You got yourself to university. To medical school. You’re going to be a great doctor, because you are already a good man, and you did that all by yourself. So, yes. I am so proud of you, Dennis. You’ve taken care of yourself your whole life, now it's our turn.”
A wet, incredulous sob slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it.
“We’ve got you, c’mon. It’s ok.”
Dennis didn’t know what to do with that promise. He’d never been foolish enough to believe it. Between it all, he’d always pushed forward with nothing more than half-hearted hopes that he’d succeed or die trying. He’d lai in a limbo of fear and forward motion for so long he’d forgotten what fine truly felt like.
But for the first time, the word left didn’t echo like failure in his chest. Instead, it felt strong.
“I’m sorry about your brother,” Robby said again.
“It’s ok,” Dennis whispered.
“It's not.”
And all Dennis could do was nod. He was right, they both were. But it was hard to admit it out loud, his body ached from more than just fatigue, his mind’s tiredness leaked into his body and left him feeling loose and unstable. They seemed to understand him none the less.
“Food, then sleep,” Jack proposed. “We’ll talk more in the morning.”
The apartment shifted into motion around him. Quiet, unceremonious. He finished his tea, the warm water coated around his stomach like a warm hug. Robby moved to the stove, reheating the soup that was prepared there. Jack guided Dennis to the dining table with a hand at his back, grounding but not steering too hard. A chair scraped softly against the floor and made room for him to exist.
A bowl was set down in front of him. Tomato soup, like his grandma used to always make him, though he didn’t mention it to Robby or Jack, with bread to match. Dennis hadn’t noticed how tightly wound he still was until the first mouthful settled in his stomach. The heat spread slowly outward, easing something clenched deep beneath his ribs. His hands shook faintly, complete exhaustion had settled in now that he’d stopped bracing for impact.
No one commented on how fast he ate at first, or how he slowed abruptly, as if remembering to ration, to pace himself, to eat with table manners. His glass of water was refilled before it ran dry. The second slice of bread was nudged closer to his resting hand once he finished the first piece.
They didn’t crowd him with comfort, or speak incessantly. They just stayed at the table. Calm, constant.
By the time the bowl was empty, his eyelids felt heavy, and his thoughts had dulled at the edges. The sharp panic from earlier had ebbed into a deep, aching fatigue so different from the type he was used to. What usually consumed him like a drug, now settled over him like a warm coat.
The hallway felt longer than it probably was, and they both helped him to his room. A stack of clean, cosy clothes were placed in his hands, soft cotton, worn in and warm as if straight from the dryer. He showered, sighing as the water cascaded over his face, and changed, catching a stray glimpse of himself in the mirror. Tear-stained, drained, but lighter than felt just a few hours ago.
The guest room waited with low lamplight and freshly laid sheets. Some posters lingered on the walls, evidence this had once been a child’s room before it became one for a guest. The bed looked almost too neat to touch, but too inviting to ignore.
He stood there, paralysed for another moment, unsure what to do with all the quiet care that was being handed to him. But, eventually, he laid his body down.
The mattress gave way gently under his weight. The door remained open just slightly, a sliver of hallway light dripping into the bedroom. Down the hall, he could hear the soft rhythm of movement, footsteps, a cabinet closing, a few words being exchanged, water running briefly.
Normal sounds. Safe sounds. Things he hadn’t heard in years.
As he let his head hit the pillow, rain began to patter against the windows. He allowed his eyes to roll shut. And when they did, he didn’t think of Nebraska, or farmland, or hellfire. Nor did he think of dark roads that never, ever seemed to end.
Instead, he thought of the two men in the living room who held him without fear. And his grandma, who gave him his cross and told him to run whenever he got the chance. He thought of Elijah, and how bright his smile always was.
For the first time in years, he slept through the night.