“Most of it.”
Thompson nodded slowly.He wrapped his hands around his coffee with both hands, full grip, the way a man holds something when the world has taught him things leave.
“I was in the surgical tents.They’d send us the ones who were too broken for the field medics to handle.Half the time, you guys had already done the hard work before they reached me.”
“Half the time, the hard work was just keeping them alive long enough to get to you.”
“Yeah.”Thompson’s gaze went somewhere else for a moment.Then he came back.“So what brings a corpsman to Blossom Springs?You retire down here?”
“Trying to figure out what’s next.The volunteer work keeps me busy while I sort it out.”
“I know that feeling.”Thompson drank his coffee.“I spent a year bartending at Sarge’s Sandbar before I came back to medicine.Poured drinks and told myself I was done with operating rooms.Turns out you can’t walk away from what you are.”
“No,” Graham said.“You can’t.”
They sat in the easy silence of two men who understood what the other wasn’t saying.Graham let it settle.Then he leaned forward slightly.
“Can I ask you something?Off the record, between vets?”
“Depends on what it is.”
“The night shift here.I’ve heard a couple of the volunteers mention that it runs differently than the day side.Different protocols, different supervision.Is that normal?”
Thompson set his coffee down.The casual ease shifted into something more careful.“Every hospital’s night shift runs a little different.Fewer administrators, fewer eyes.More autonomy for the staff.”
“More autonomy.Or less oversight?”
Thompson studied him for a long moment.“That’s a specific question for a volunteer.”
“I’m a specific kind of volunteer.”
Another silence.Thompson picked up his coffee, drank, and set it down again.
“I’ve been at this hospital for a while now,” he said carefully.“I’ve noticed things.Staff turnover in the ICU has been higher than it should be.Good nurses leaving without much explanation.And the sealed transfer protocols—” He stopped.“I shouldn’t be talking about this.”
“I think you should.”
“I think I need to know who I’m talking to first.”
Graham reached into his pocket and pulled out a plain white card with nothing on it but a phone number.He set it on the table between them.
“When you’re ready,” he said.“That number reaches me directly.Day or night.”
Thompson looked at the card.He didn’t pick it up.He didn’t push it away.
“You’re not just a volunteer.”
“No.”
“And you’re not going to tell me what you are.”
“Not yet.But I will.When the time’s right.”
Thompson held his gaze for three beats.Then he picked up the card and slipped it into the breast pocket of his white coat.
“I’ve got a patient in twenty minutes,” he said, and stood.He paused, looking down at Graham with an expression that was equal parts wariness and relief—a man who’d been carrying a weight alone and had just realized someone else could see it.
“Khost,” Thompson said.“That was bad country.”
