Jordan's POV:

There was a private pathology lab five miles away from the sparsely furnished apartment I rented in Miami. Much of the work is monotonous. I reviewed tissue samples for lawyers working on malpractice cases. Occasionally, the medical examiner's office sent us tissue samples when they were overworked and understaffed.

The pathologist that hired me was an old, rumpled man. His arthritis, hunched stature, and shuffling gate told me that he was probably in his seventies. To him, pathology was his life. He confided in me that he was alone. All he had was the small, private lab. He sounded so sad when he talked about his personal life; Dr. Erb insisted upon taking me out for lunch every afternoon. I had never met someone so alone. I became terrified of becoming him.

"Cal, you home?" I asked as I walked through the door. I was exhausted and ready to go to bed. The sheer inactivity of my temporary job made my current work feel much more exhausting than the adrenaline fueled work in Boston.

"Yep," Cal called out from the living room.

He was beginning to look better. I gave him a methadone pill every morning before I dropped him off at the rehab center. I always waited until he was inside the building. There was always a voice in the back of my head telling me not to trust him. Unfortunately for Cal, the voice won, and he was kept on a very short leash.

"I'm hungry. Let's go out for seafood," Cal said as he greeted me in the kitchen.

He had been staying with me for a week. Once the worst of the withdrawals were remedied by methadone, I found myself enjoying his company. He was so much like Woody, but at the same time Cal was so different. Cal was so relaxed. He was a free-spirit. He didn't worry about if everything was headed perfectly on course. Cal didn't pressure people because he was able to go with the flow. I looked forward to coming home to see him.

"You're cellphone has been ringing nearly non-stop in the fifteen minutes since I got home," Cal said as he took the leather satchel I was carrying and put it on the kitchen table.

"Woody?" I asked as I opened up the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of spring water.

"Woody and . . . Nigel," Cal replied.

"I'm going to call Nigel back before we go out for supper," I replied as I walked into the sparsely furnished living room.

"You think everything is okay in Boston?" Cal asked. I knew he was worried about Woody. I knew he was more worried than he would ever admit; in that sense, he was so much like his brother.

"We'll see," I replied. I could feel my heart begin to race. The 'doctor' portion of my brain began to come up with a million different complications of the surgeries that Woody was undergoing. For as much as he hurt me, I still had a hard time accepting the fact that he didn't want me anymore. It was compounded by the fact that I had said things to him that I had never said to a man before. I really did love him. I wasn't sure if I could just stop loving him.

"Jordan, love, is that you?" Nigel asked. He must have been waiting for a telephone call because he picked up his cellphone after the first ring.

"Yeah, it's me," I replied awkwardly. I wasn't sure what to say to him. I wasn't sure what needed to be said.

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay. It's been a week," Nigel replied.

"I'm doing good," I replied.

"Woody says you're with his troublesome younger brother," Nigel said.

"Cal and I are doing okay. Both of us are fine. There's really no need to worry," I replied.

"Woody thinks there's a good reason to worry," Nigel replied.

"How is he?" I asked.

"I saw him a few days ago. He was doing okay. The swelling around his spinal cord is beginning to go down. I guess all those antibiotics and anti-inflammatory medications are starting to do their thing," Nigel replied.

"That's good. How's the vascular supply to his caudal spinal cord?" I asked. I knew the real danger was in the formation of blood clots that might compromise blood flow to the areas of his spinal cord that were healing following the shooting. Judging from the amount I remembered seeing on his Kevlar and clothing, his spinal cord probably was damaged from the blood loss. The question was whether his spinal cord was damaged beyond repair.

"It's good. He's healing up as quickly as can be expected," Nigel replied, "How are you healing, love?"

"One day at a time. It's hard to be let down by so many people at once," I replied.

"Dr. M loves you. You know that," Nigel replied, "He's not perfect."

"I know. I just always looked to him as a moral authority . . . considering my dad had a tendency to play by his own rules," I replied.

"I know, love. You sound well," Nigel commented.

"I'm trying to use this time to figure out what's going on in my life, Nige. I'm going to come home feeling better. I promise," I replied.

"Okay. Jordan, be careful. If you need anything, I want you to call me," Nigel instructed.

"I'll even call you just to check in," I replied.

"Thanks, love. You know how to put an old man's mind at ease," Nigel teased.

"I call in a few days. Say hi to Lily for me," I replied, "Bye."

"Is Woody okay?" Cal immediately asked. I hadn't noticed him pacing the room nervously as I reassured Nigel that my absence was temporary.

"He's healing just the way he should be. Let's go get supper," I replied. Cal didn't look convinced. Despite all the Woody said to Cal, Cal still loved him. I think going to rehab was Cal's way of showing Woody that he wasn't a screw-up. After his trip to Boston, I think Cal realized that he needed to clean up, but he didn't know how.

"You sure we shouldn't go to Boston?" Cal asked.

"I'm sure. Let's give Woody sometime to figure out what he wants," I replied.

"Why does he do this? He completely shuts down if everything isn't perfect," Cal replied, "Nothing in this world is perfect. I don't get why he needs it to be perfect."

"I wish I understood that, too," I replied.