Healing Dr. Alexander

CHAPTER ONE

HE NEEDED TO get out of the car. Jack knew it, just as he knew his best and oldest friend, Dr. Amanda Jacobs, was waiting for him inside the run-down clinic. He’d been due to meet her here two hours ago, but somehow he’d found a million reasons to be late. Lingering over a lunch he didn’t want and couldn’t bring himself to eat, filling the rental car up with gas, exploring websites about sightseeing in Atlanta, though he had no desire to actually visit the place. Anything and everything to keep him from this parking lot, this moment, this decision he wasn’t ready to make.

Not that it was a done deal, he reassured himself as he finally reached for the door handle. He hadn’t agreed to anything. He was here to see his friend, to take a look around. Checking out the clinic didn’t mean he was promising anything. To Amanda or himself. It proved he was interested in what his friend had been getting up to.

Still, the walk to the front door of the clinic was a long one. And not just because of the bowling ball in his stomach. Both his leg and his hand ached from where he’d been shot two months before; Atlanta’s humidity exacerbating the still recovering tendons.

Which brought up the question he’d been asking himself ever since his plane had landed the night before. What was he doing here? His doctor was in Boston. His physical therapist was in Boston. His family was in Boston. And yet here he was, in Atlanta, checking out a clinic he had absolutely no interest in working in.

This whole trip was stupid. A joke. He didn’t belong here any more than he belonged in the fancy family practice his father had gotten him an interview at in Boston last week. He hadn’t been interested in that job, either, but his father had refused to take no for an answer. Dealing with sniffles and high blood pressure was a long way from being Chief of Thoracic Surgery at John Hopkins, but it was better than “scrabbling away in that pathetic little hovel in Africa,” as the elder Jack Alexander liked to say.

The casual cruelty, and inherent snobbery, of his father’s words was what made Jack dial up Amanda in the first place, then take her up on her frequently issued invitation to come see the newest project she was involved in.

Atlanta felt too foreign, too strange, and that was even before he took into account his ridiculous feelings for Amanda. Feelings that wouldn’t go away, no matter how hopeless they were.

And they were hopeless, he reminded himself viciously. They’d been friends for well over a decade—ever since they’d met as first years at Harvard Medical School—and though he’d been in love with her since they’d duked it out for the top spot in the program, she’d never seen him as anything more than a pal. And now she was married—married—to another of Jack’s closest buddies and any tiny hope he’d held on to that they might one day be together had been officially destroyed.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Started to head to the car. No, he didn’t belong here. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? He didn’t belong anywhere. Not anymore. Not like he used to. These days he was a shell of his former self, one who could barely hold a stethoscope steady let alone a scalpel.

Jack cut off the familiar thought as he forced himself to turn back around and step into the clinic. He let the cracked glass door with its iron burglar bars swing shut behind him. The pity party was getting old. Especially since he was the only one at the table.Sick of himself, and the grinding pain he couldn’t escape no matter how many exercises he did, he tried to distract himself by looking around. Analyzing the surroundings.

There wasn’t much to analyze. The waiting room was large and spare, its walls painted with what he guessed had once been cream, but was now more of a dingy yellow splashed with stains. People sat on folding chairs, crammed into every available space, while a couple of forlorn plants—ones that had definitely seen better days—sat in the front corner of the room next to a high counter. Behind it, a large, African-American woman worked on a computer, several charts stacked in front of her. It all reminded him a lot more of his tent clinic in Somalia than the private practice his family was trying to force him to join.

To the woman’s left was a small sliding-glass window. There were about a dozen people lined up in front of it, all bedraggled and clearly feeling sick and miserable. Nothing compared to the patients he’d seen in Somalia, but still it was obvious these people needed help.

He felt that old familiar stirring inside of him, the one that demanded he roll up his sleeves and pitch in. This was what he did. What he was good at.

He beat the urge back down. This was what he had done. What he had been good at. These days, he could barely dress himself let alone practice medicine.

Despite the fact that the clinic was overcrowded, it was obviously efficiently run. Though the line of people was growing, they were being rapidly signed in and triaged. Behind the window, he could see a nurse taking temperatures even as she typed notes into a computer.

Not that he was surprised. Amanda could work anywhere, could practice medicine in the middle of war zones and natural disasters without blinking an eye. But she demanded efficiency of everyone around her—or at least she did when she wasn’t drowning in sorrow.

Seeing the way this clinic ran like clockwork, convinced him even more that he’d made the right decision all those months ago. Getting her out of Africa so she could deal with the loss of her child and regain her health, had been exactly the right thing to do. Even if, in doing so, he had lost her forever.

The loss was bittersweet, especially now that he could see that she really had found herself again here in this run-down, little clinic in Atlanta. He’d sent her out of Somalia a year ago, so burned out and run-down he was afraid she would work herself to death. He’d told her to take a vacation. Instead, she’d ended up here.

And now, somehow, so had he.

Not that he was planning on getting involved, he assured himself. He was just here to see an old friend, to see for himself that she really was okay and to assure her the same thing about him. He’d take her and Simon to dinner later that evening. Tell a few stories, crack a few jokes, and then catch the first flight back to Massachusetts in the morning. It would be easy, so easy that even he couldn’t screw it up.

Now that he had a plan, Jack straightened his shoulders.

Flexed his already cramping hand.

Made sure his I’m-in-control-and-master-of-my-own-destiny mask was firmly in place, then headed toward the front of the waiting room.

He figured his best bet was the woman behind the computer because, as he’d been standing here thinking, the line at the small window had only gotten longer. So he leaned on the high counter, hoping if he took some weight off his leg it would stop throbbing quite so badly. He smiled at the woman.

“I’m here to—”

“The line starts over there.” She pointed at the window without ever looking away from the computer.

“I can see that. However, I want to talk to—”

“Over. There.” The finger jabbed at the air for emphasis, but the woman still didn’t look at him.

“Again. I see the window. However, I’m a friend of—”

She did look at him then, her eyebrows pulled low over her eyes and her mouth curled downward. “I don’t actually care if you’re friends with the surgeon general, the president of the United States and Denzel Washington. The line starts over there.” Again she stabbed a finger in the direction of the window, than grunted as she reached for another file and began inputting its content into the computer.

Jack stared at her for a few moments, then turned to look at the line she was directing him to. It had grown exponentially in the past five minutes, efficient nurses or not. His leg throbbed, his hand ached and the last thing he wanted to do was to stand around for the next hour while he waited on a chance to see Amanda.

Maybe it wasn’t meant to be, he told himself as he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and flipped through his contacts until he found her cell number. He’d call Amanda and if she didn’t pick up—and she probably wouldn’t as she was more than likely with a patient—he’d call it a day. After all, he’d tried his best. He’d shown up, talked to the office manager, had tried to explain who he was. It wasn’t his fault that she wouldn’t listen.

Ignoring the voice in his head that told him he was being a coward and taking the easy way out, Jack listened to Amanda’s voice mail greeting and left a brief message letting her know that he was in the waiting room. Then he headed for the door, doing his best to justify the fact that he was—despite his good intentions—running away.

He assured himself that he wasn’t afraid of touring this little, low-income clinic. It was simply that he had better things to do. Like staring at the ceiling of his hotel room…

“Jack!” Amanda’s voice rang through the waiting room, foiling his escape. He froze, his hand on the door handle. “Where are you going?”

He turned to see her barreling through the door that separated the waiting room from the rest of the clinic. Then she was hurtling herself into his arms and his only choice was to brace himself with his good leg and catch her or let her take them both to the floor.

“Hey! Where’s the fire?” he asked, even as he wrapped his arms around her in a huge bear hug.

“I’m so glad you’re here!” she said, stretching up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek before pulling away. “I’ve missed you. And you have perfect timing. My shift just ended.”

He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat and smiled down at her. “I’ve missed you, too. Although Atlanta seems to be agreeing with you.”

“It really does,” she said, blushing a little.

“I can tell.” She barely looked like the same woman he’d banished from Africa all those months ago. The sparkle was back in her silver eyes, the shine back in her short, blonde hair. Her skin glowed and her smile was wide and unfettered. Her time here in Atlanta—and with Simon—had obviously been good for her.

He ignored the lingering pain that awareness caused, focusing instead on the sweet realization that Amanda really was okay. That was enough, more than enough, to make up for any hurt he might be feeling.

“I’m so glad you came,” she told him, giving him another quick hug. “I’ve been waiting for you to get here forever.”

“I’m sorry I’m late. I got…” His voice trailed off, his excuses drying up as surely as the deserts of North Africa. He never had been able to lie worth a damn, especially not to Amanda.

“No excuses,” she told him, reaching for his hand. “You’re here now. That’s what’s important.”

He watched as she examined the still raw scars on his hand. Scars where the bullet went in. Scars from where the doctors at the American University of Cairo had struggled to save his hand. Even more scars from the three operations in Boston to repair as much of the tendon damage as possible. Two top surgeons had collaborated on his case—one a friend of his father’s and one a friend of his—but even their expertise hadn’t been enough to help him regain full mobility.

In time, with intensive physical therapy, he’d once again be able to use his right hand to open bottle caps or button small buttons or to do most of the little day-to-day things he’d taken for granted for so much of his life. But no matter how much physical therapy he did, no matter how many exercise reps he forced himself to complete, he would never again hold a scalpel.

Would never again be able to operate.

He could see the knowledge in Amanda’s eyes, feel her pity in the soft caress of her fingers over his, and it embarrassed him. Shamed him.

He quickly pulled his hand from her grasp, hating how his inability to perform surgery made him feel like half a man—maybe even less. No wonder he’d never been able to compete with Simon.

“Does it still hurt?” she asked softly, ignoring the No Trespassing signs he’d hastily thrown up. But then, a decade and a half of friendship gave her that privilege. Especially since the last time they’d seen each other had ended up with him drugging her so that Simon could get her out of Africa and back to America where she could get the rest she needed. Next to that, a few questions seemed well within the boundaries of friendship.

“Not really,” he prevaricated as he curled the hand in question into a fist.

“Liar.” He didn’t respond and Amanda sighed, linking her right arm with his left one. “But I won’t tell. To everyone else you can be the same old indestructible Jack.”

Indestructible. He liked the sound of that. If only it were true.

“So, show me this clinic of yours,” he told her, not even trying to hide his desperation to change the subject. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing what you’ve been up to.”

After giving him another long look—one that told him she still knew him better than anyone else on earth—Amanda led him to the back of the clinic. And into another layer of hell.

CHAPTER TWO

IT HAD BEEN two months since he’d been in a medical establishment as anything but a patient.

Two months since anyone had called him doctor and meant it.

Two months since he’d felt anything but useless.

He knew Amanda had brought him here so that he could see there was life after surgery, life after Africa, but it wasn’t working. As she took him by the exam rooms, introduced him to the clinic staff, stopped and talked to a few patients she obviously knew, he only felt worse. On one hand, everything had changed. On the other, nothing had and he was stuck in the middle trying to find a spot for himself when the only place where he wanted to be, was no longer an option for him.

“So, what do you think?” Amanda asked as they wound up the tour in the hallway outside the exam rooms.

“It’s great,” he told her, meaning it. The clinic, while not wasting money for cosmetic changes, had top of the line equipment and a staff that appeared very well-trained. “You look like you’ve finally found your place.”

“I have.” This time, when she smiled, contentment radiated from her. “We do good work here.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Amanda was a hell of a doctor and she wouldn’t get involved in any establishment that wasn’t top-notch. At the thought, For the Children, the organization that funded his clinic in Somali, flashed into his mind. They were a fantastic organization to work for and after two months away, he missed them. Missed practicing medicine. At the same time, though, returning to Africa, where he’d been shot, made him uneasy. Oh, he would never admit it to anyone, but he was beginning to think that his time in Africa was as finished as Amanda’s was. The idea filled him with sadness, with more knowledge of how useless he had become.

He shook the uneasiness off, refused to give in to it. So what if he was aimless, directionless, for the first time in his life. Parading his insecurities in front of Amanda was the last thing he wanted to do.

“So, can I buy you a late lunch?” he asked her, glancing at his watch. “I want to take you and Simon to dinner tonight, as well.”

“Actually, we were hoping to have you over to the house tonight. Simon’s cooking.”

Of course he was, as Amanda could scorch water. His stomach tightened a little at the idea of seeing the two of them ensconced together in domestic bliss, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t known it was coming. He was the one who had emailed Simon, after all. Who had brought him back into Amanda’s life.

Which was a good thing, he told himself viciously. The other man had saved her, brought her back to herself after the devastating death of their daughter. Seeing her with him again after all these years was fine. Better than fine, when it meant she was whole and happy and healthy.

“Sure. That’d be great.” He added an extra-large grin, so she’d know he meant it.

“Fantastic. And I wish you’d reconsider staying with us.” She shot him a reproving look. “We have plenty of room.”

Yeah, well, that was where he drew the line. Coming here, making sure she was okay, was one thing. Torturing himself with the knowledge that the woman he’d loved for a decade was down the hall in bed with another man? Call him crazy, but he wasn’t that big of a masochist.

“I’m great at the hotel. Honest. Besides, I have to leave for the airport really early in the morning. I don’t want to disturb you.”

“Airport?” she asked in dismay. “You just got to town last night.”

“I know, but I can’t stay. I have a physical-therapy appointment in Boston on Thursday. I can’t miss it.”

“We have physical therapists here in Atlanta, you know.”

He ignored the cute little pout her mouth had worked itself into. “Yes, but I don’t live in Atlanta. My doctors are in Boston.”

“Boston, Shmoston. You’re not happy there. I know you’re not.”

He sighed, ran a hand through his hair. Resisted the urge to tell her that he didn’t have it in him to be happy anywhere. But then he’d sound like the pathetic loser he was, and call him vain, but he wasn’t up for any more sympathy.

Not sure what to say, he finally settled on part of the truth. “I’m tired, Amanda. I don’t have it in me to try to be someplace new right now. And with the shape my hand is in…I can’t be a doctor right now. I can’t—”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?” He wouldn’t have been as shocked if she’d punched him. Amanda had been circling around him for weeks.

“I said, you’re spouting bullshit.” She grabbed his arm and yanked him into a small supply closet that he assumed—from the desk and diplomas on the wall—was serving double-duty as her office. “You aren’t tired. You’re scared and you’re drowning in self-pity.”

“You’re one to talk.” The words were out before he could stop them. He saw them hit her, saw their impact, and wished he could take them back. Angry as he was, he had no right to take it out on Amanda. Not when she’d already suffered so much.

But she was nodding, eyes clear and shoulders straight. “Exactly. I am one to talk. Because I was where you are not too long ago.” Her voice was harsh and direct now, containing none of the sweetness he’d been hearing from her for weeks. It was almost a relief to have her back to normal—somehow it made him feel more like a functioning member of society.

“You did your tough love thing for me not that long ago. Now it’s time for me to return the favor.”

“It’s not the same thing. I’m going to be fine. I just need…” He didn’t know what he needed, besides the full use of his hand back. Without that, he had nothing.

“You need a change of scenery.”

“I’ve already got that. Boston is a far cry from Somalia.”

“You’ve never been able to breathe in Boston. We both know that. Your dad has probably already got you signed up to interview at some prestigious family practice—” She broke off when she saw his face. “Are you kidding me, Jack? You really want to take care of women who spend more on plastic surgery in a year than it would take to run this clinic?”

“You’re over-simplifying things.”

“And you’re making them too complicated. Come to Atlanta for a few months, hang out with Simon and me. Do your physical therapy here, and then, when you’re ready, when you’re healed, you can make a better decision.”

“I can do all that in Boston.” Admittedly, Amanda wasn’t in Boston, but that wasn’t exactly a deterrent. He totally accepted that she was married to Simon—was happy, in fact, that things had worked out so well for her. That didn’t mean he was dying to spend every day with what he couldn’t have right in front of him.

“Yeah, but here you won’t have your family making you nuts all the time.”

“No, I’ll have you poking and prodding at me.”

“Someone needs to—”

“Doctor Jacobs!” The shout sounded from the hallway outside Amanda’s closed door and was followed quickly by the slap of footsteps against the linoleum floor.

Jack threw open the door to see the triage nurse from the waiting room. “Dr. Zilker said to get you,” she said breathlessly. “There’s been a shooting. It’s bad.”

“Which room?” demanded Amanda, already running to the front of the clinic.

“We’ve got him in exam-room one.”

Jack followed her, adrenaline pumping through his system despite himself. “Who’s Zilker?”

“One of our residents. He’s good, but he’s still new—” She broke off as they entered the exam room and Jack knew why. There was blood everywhere.

For a second, he flashed back to that operating room in Somalia. The one where he’d lost both his patient and his ability to perform surgery. His bum leg shook and he was almost certain he was going to land on his ass.

But then Amanda took control, demanding vitals as she slipped on a pair of gloves before diving right into the mess. Somehow the normalcy of being in the middle of an emergency with Amanda steadied him, had him striding forward and pulling on a pair of gloves, as well. He struggled a little with the right one, but refused to let it back him off.

“What have we got?” he demanded of the resident, who was standing at the front of the bed, his face as white as the sheets on the bed.

His voice must have carried enough authority to make up for the fact that he was a stranger because Zilker didn’t hesitate as he stuttered out, “Male, age eighteen to twenty. Multiple gunshot wounds to the chest, pelvis, upper thigh. Blood pressure is seventy over forty and falling…”

The world narrowed the way it always did for him in situations like these. “Do you have blood?” he asked Amanda.

“Yeah. Type him. And call 911,” Amanda said, as she went for the wound in the kid’s pelvis.

Which left the chest wound to him. It shouldn’t come as such a surprise—after all, that was how they always worked, but it did. He looked at the gaping hole in the kid’s chest, and wished for his old dexterity. For his ability to get in there and stitch things up.

So great was the longing that he almost walked away, had actually taken a step back when Amanda looked up and pinned him with silver eyes made steely with determination. “Do you think he cares about your hand, Jack?” she snapped at him. “Get in there, get the bleeding stopped enough that the ambulance can transport him to County for surgery or he’s going to die. I’ve got a mess down here. If I try to leave it, he’s going to bleed out.”

Her words, and the absolute lack of doubt she conveyed, snapped him out of it. Had him moving forward despite his fear and anger, barking out orders to the resident and two nurses standing next to him.

The next twenty minutes passed in a blur of concentration and pain as he forced his stiff hand into positions it hadn’t attempted in two very long months. Amanda worked beside him, dealing with the wounds on the kid’s lower body as he struggled to stop the bleeding in his chest long enough for the paramedics to be able to take over.

In the old days, he would have said to hell with it and started stitching the boy up, but he didn’t have the small motor skills necessary to do that anymore. So he concentrated on basic emergency triage, doing what any other family practitioner or internist would do in the same situation. It wasn’t clean, and it wasn’t pretty, but eventually the patient was stable enough to be rushed to the nearest O.R.

Before he knew it, paramedics were at the door. Stepping back, he gestured for them to take over. He and Amanda had done all they could.

Stripping off his gloves, he looked down at himself. He was covered in blood, as neither he nor Amanda had taken time to gown up. Which was fine for her, as she probably kept a spare set of clothes around here somewhere, but he looked like he’d just gotten out of a war zone. Not the best look for someone who had to walk through a hotel lobby before getting to his room to clean up.

“We have a few pairs of scrubs in the back that will probably fit you,” Amanda told him, having read his mind. “You and Lucas are about the same size.”

“Lucas?” he asked.

“My boss. Our boss, if you decide to take the job. This clinic is his baby.”

“Oh. Right.” This wasn’t Amanda’s clinic. Wouldn’t be his clinic if he decided to take a chance on Atlanta, to take a chance on this job. Which was one more strike against the idea, in his opinion. He hadn’t had to answer to anyone in a long time. After running clinics in some of the most remote places on earth for almost his entire career, the idea that he would have to step back and let someone else be in charge, grated. Big time. If he was being honest, he wasn’t sure he could work that way.

He didn’t give voice to any of his doubts, but then he didn’t have to. He and Amanda had known each other a long time.

“You’ll be fine,” she told him. “Lucas is great to work for. Even a big, bad surgeon like yourself won’t have any complaints.”

He wasn’t so sure. But instead of trying to explain himself, he simply said, “I’m not a surgeon anymore. I couldn’t even sew that kid up.” He jerked his chin toward their unconscious patient, who the paramedics were prepping for travel.

Amanda didn’t flinch, didn’t make excuses. Met his eyes straight on and said, “So what?”

He goggled at her. “Excuse me?”

“So you couldn’t sew him up. So you can’t do everything. So you’re not as damn perfect as you want to be. So what? You’re still a damn good doctor, one of the best I’ve ever seen.” Her voice was strong, firm, passionate. And pitched low enough that no one else in the room could hear what she was saying. “You saved that kid’s life.”

“He’s not safe yet. There’s a lot more work to be done on him.”

She made a sound of frustration in the back of her throat. “You know what I mean.”

“I know that if I could still use my hand properly, that kid would have a much better chance of survival than he currently does.”

“Yeah, and if you hadn’t been here, he would already be dead. I’m a damn good doctor, but I couldn’t have dealt with the chest and pelvis at the same time. So take what you can from that and move on. You did your best.”

“What if my best isn’t good enough?” he asked, hating that he sounded like a whiny little boy, but unable to stop the words from tumbling out.

Amanda sighed, then grabbed his arm and yanked him out of the room. For a long time, they didn’t say anything. They squared off in the hallway in a stare down of epic proportions.

Amanda blinked first. “What if it is good enough?” she asked. “You’ve got a gift, Jack. Surgeon or not, you can do things, see things, that no one else can.”

“There are a lot of great doctors out there, Amanda.” He gestured to her. “And in here. We know that kid would have been better off with a surgeon who had full use of his hands, too. We can debate this all day. In fact, why don’t—”

Amanda held up a hand, stopping him mid-breath. “Is working here the same as doing surgery in some fancy Boston hospital? No, of course not. But it’s still good work. Still necessary work. You never wanted that life, anyway. Driving a silver Ferrari and doing weekends on Martha’s Vineyard. That’s no more you, than it is me.”

“No, that wasn’t where I was headed in my life and it wasn’t what I miss. I was happy in Africa, doing surgery for For the Children. Was it frustrating? Yes. Were there times I wanted to quit? Absolutely. But it was good work. Important work. You’re damn right I miss it.”

“And as soon as you heal, you can go back. I know you want to, even though the rest of us would rather you didn’t. The fact of the matter is, you could so easily have died in that clinic in Somalia, Jack. You—”

“I know that.”

“Do you, really? Because I think you and your God complex have somehow managed to forget it. Another man, a weaker man, would have given in to the pain and the blood loss and those bastards who wanted you dead. But you didn’t. You’re still here. Are you hurt? Absolutely. Has your life taken a twist you weren’t ready for? No doubt. Welcome to the world of being human, Jack. That’s what happens. It’s messy and it hurts and rarely goes according to plan. But that’s okay, because it means you’re still alive. And you are, Jack, whether you wish you’d given up back there or not. So isn’t it time you started acting like it?”

He didn’t answer her. He was afraid that if he did he’d lash out at her with words no one needed to hear, let alone Amanda. It wasn’t that long ago that she’d been an emotional wreck, a couple short steps from working herself to death because she couldn’t deal with the loss of her only child.

He’d been the one lecturing her then and the fact that things had changed so completely made him feel worse. In the space of two months, his whole world had turned upside down and he didn’t know what to do about it. Every time he tried to imagine his future without surgery, every time he tried to picture himself in six months or a year or five years, he drew nothing but a blank. If he wasn’t a surgeon, if he wasn’t a doctor for For the Children, then what the hell was he?

The answer came back to him the same as it always did these days. He was nothing. Working at some low-income clinic in Atlanta wasn’t going to change all that.

Panic overwhelmed him and he started to tremble. He was on the verge of shaking apart, the emotional pain of his loss combining with the pain in his hand and leg, spreading through his whole body until he couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. The specter of everything he’d lost rose up inside him, paralyzing him.

On top of that, he was afraid he couldn’t hide it, especially from someone who knew him as well as Amanda. If she noticed, however, it didn’t matter, because she wasn’t letting up. “We need you, Jack.” She stepped forward and put one soft hand on his forearm. “We really need you.” What she didn’t say, but what hung in the air between them, was the fact that he needed this clinic, needed her, at least as much as it needed him.

Sensing his weakness, she pressed her advantage. “Come on, give us a month. What’s the worst that can happen?”

His heart was beating too fast and he swore he felt a panic attack coming on for the first time in his life. He tamped down on it even as her question circled around and around in his head. What was the worst that could happen? How about complete and total humiliation? Or him losing even more faith in himself and his skills?

Or, God forbid, him killing someone who could have been saved because his damn hand wouldn’t work right?

The possibilities were endless and he started to tell Amanda so, to list the number of really terrible things that could happen. But one look at her face told him she wouldn’t listen. Her mind was made up. Besides, it wasn’t like he wanted to shout out his deepest insecurities for the world—or his best friend—to hear. That had never been his style.

Instead, he looked down at his bloodstained clothes and thought of the boy they had saved. Then glanced back into the room at the ripped-up clothes and blood-soaked gauze, and at the patient who was even now being strapped to a gurney to be transported to the hospital.

Yes, he was afraid—desperately afraid—of not being able to do what needed to be done here. But he was even more afraid that if he went back home to Boston he’d end up selling out. Giving in. Becoming the kind of doctor his parents had always wanted him to be—the kind he’d always despised.

And then he knew. Even with everything that could go wrong, with all the mistakes he could make, he would still rather be here, doing something truly helpful, than sitting at home, selling out and feeling sorry for himself.

A sense of relief washed over him. His heartbeat slowed and he could breathe again. Panic subsided into a calm clarity. Working at this clinic with Amanda wouldn’t be forever—he couldn’t afford to let it be—but for now it was a million times better than the alternative.

He wadded up the gloves he was still holding and—using his good hand—lobbed them at the trash can. They soared into the center of the basket in a perfect three pointer.

Then he turned to Amanda with the closest thing to a smile he could manage. “You’re right. It’s better than Boston. Looks like you’ve got yourself a doctor.”