"Dr. Shepherd."

Amelia didn't turn around. It wasn't because she hadn't heard her name, or because she was avoiding the person who said it (she was), or because she was simply too busy to respond. Amelia didn't turn around because at Oceanside Wellness, whenever someone said Dr. Shepherd, it was to get her attention. Or to get her opinion. Or to scold her. Or to praise her. But whichever reason it was, they were always talking to her. Here in Seattle, no one was ever talking to her. If someone was talking to her, it would be to ask her if she knew where Derek Shepherd, neurosurgical god, was. As though she, a perfectly good neurosurgeon in her own right, wasn't standing right in front of them! No, here in Seattle, everyone wanted Derek or nothing. Hell, she wouldn't be surprised if people just let their patients' brains bleed freely if they didn't get their page answered by Derek Shepherd. It was infuriating, but she was numb to it. That was why she didn't bother turning around.

"Amelia?"

That got her attention just enough to say bitingly, "I don't know where my brother is, nor do I care to find him."

The owner of the voice, Chief Owen Hunt, appeared at her side. He pretended to look over the surgical board with her, but she knew he was eying her in his peripheral vision. That's what they all did.

"Derek's in D.C. this week," Owen told her.

"Wow," she answered sarcastically. "People might actually have to settle for the Other Shepherd for a few days. Or let their patients go brain dead." She shrugged. "I haven't decided which is more likely in the event of the absence of Derek Shepherd, neurosurgical godsend."

Owen was quiet for a minute. A full minute. She counted.

"There's a consult in the pit," he said finally.

She smiled grimly. "Straight to the point. I like it, chief." And with that, she walked away. He was watching her go, she knew he was. They all watched her. All of the time.

Addiction was a funny little thing. It really gave you a solid definition of "conflicted emotional state". It was like when you ended a serious relationship and you hated your ex as much as you still loved him. Nobody wants to be an addict; no one asks for that kind of life. No one wants to get clean and wake up every morning, grateful they got through it but yearning for a relapse because it was so so much easier.

The world was dark. It was dark and sad and scary, and there was so much loss. Amelia felt it all. She felt every stinging bit of it, until one day, a friend gave her a tiny little pill. And that pill, it made her happier than she'd ever felt, at least since before she turned five years old and the world went to hell. Because no world where your father gets shot in front of you could be anything but hell. She would've done anything else to improve her quality of life. She even tried praying once, and it would've helped but there is no god. No god would do something that horrible. No god would take a father away from his five year old daughter and her siblings.

The pills took away the pain. The pills did their job for a long time, until one day she got sober. The world was dark again, but it was clearer. Eventually, the world got so clouded and screwed up that the pills had to do their job for her again. But then they stopped doing their job.

Because when you wake up to a dead fiance and give birth to his brainless baby, nothing can fix it. Not even a magic little pill.

That was why they all looked at her. That was why everyone stared. It wasn't because she was a brilliant surgeon (she was, is, always will be), or because she was exceptionally beautiful (she was), or for any other reason than they felt the need to watch her. They were worried about her.

And she hated it. She hated him for it.

The consult in the pit wasn't a stumper, but it wasn't fun either. 32 year old male. Brain dead. He caught up with her again afterwards. Chief Hunt, that is, not the brain dead guy. Her mind was racing.

"How's it going, Dr. Shepherd?" He matched her pace as she raced down the hospital hall towards nothing and no one. She walked with purpose towards nowhere.

"Going well, Chief Hunt." He cringed almost imperceptibly, so quickly she wasn't sure it had even happened.

"Consult finished?"

"Brain dead," she answered. "Sucks."

"Have you had lunch yet?"

She paused. "Not hungry today."

"Amelia."

He stopped walking, so she did too, only because he was the Chief of Surgery and she felt she had to. Not for any other reason, not one.

"It's not your fault."

"Yeah," she said, casting her gaze around for something to look at other than him. "Well, I didn't help the matter, did I?"

"You tried. No one else would go near it, and you tried…"

"Trying…" She let out a deep breath, "doesn't matter. I guess everyone else was right. I took away weeks, months of her life. So trying doesn't really matter anymore."

"Weeks that would have been spent in discomfort, pain, unhappiness…"

"You're just describing life," Amelia spat bitterly, abandoning professional courtesy as professionalism had clearly flown out the window from the second this conversation began. "That's how I feel all the time, but it's still better than being dead. I'm in pain. I'm unhappy. We all feel like we're dying sometimes, but we don't actually die. She was dying and I…. I took away weeks. She's not getting those back. She actually died. I didn't help."

"You're right," he said, and she would've walked away if he hadn't just shocked her with those two words.

"Thanks," she muttered.

"You're right," he repeated. "You didn't help. Maybe she would've lived a few more weeks. You did take those away. But you gave her something too, Amelia, something she wouldn't have had a few weeks later on her deathbed without you."

"Anesthesia?"

He smiled. "Hope."

"That was cheesy as hell," she said.

"Someone had to get you to crack a smile at least once today," he replied.

"I was thinking of getting a burger for lunch," she said.

"Mind if I join you, Dr. Shepherd?"

"Amy." She smiled. "You can call me Amy."