The characters in this fanfic are not my creations but belong to their original author, Jess Cantrell, author of the Gray Matter Series.
While I strive to remain true to my perception of these characters, I may occasionally write pieces that could seem out of character. Please read with grace.
Dana moved quietly down the hospital halls; the air was thick with the scent of antiseptics and chemicals. The sharp tang of phenol, the acrid sweetness of ether, and the cloying, irritating presence of formaldehyde all mingled into an oppressive cloud that permeated everything. It was the smell of triage, of crisis, and of the constant, unrelenting struggle to keep men alive. Steelworkers had filled every available cot, every inch of space in the hospital, each of them bearing the scars of an industry that took as much as it gave. Some suffered from burns so severe their skin was barely recognizable, others had broken limbs and shattered bones, and a few were lost in the haze of fever and infection.
Dana had moved her practice to the hospital temporarily, knowing full well that her skills were needed far more here than in her own clinic. The hospital was overwhelmed, its staff working tirelessly but stretched to the limit. Any extra hands were a blessing, and another doctor, even one specializing in areas outside trauma surgery, was welcome. She had barely slept for two days, taking short naps where she could, in hidden corners or leaning against a wall. There was no time for rest when the hospital was this full, when men's lives depended on every action she took.
Walking the length of the hallway, she made her way to Ward B, where the most critical patients were housed. The makeshift ward had been hastily organized, with cots crammed together, barely room to maneuver between them. She paused at the foot of a bed, picking up a chart that was barely legible, the notes scrawled in haste by an overworked nurse.
Relief was supposed to be on its way—a shipment of morphine from the East, a much-needed supply that couldn't arrive fast enough. For now, though, Dana had to make do with what little they had left. She administered ten milligrams of morphine to a burn victim whose body was covered in layers of gauze. His breathing was shallow, his sleep fitful even under the influence of the drug, but at least he wasn't conscious to feel the worst of it. Dana worked with quiet precision, changing his bandages as gently as possible, ensuring not to disturb what little unburnt skin remained. This part of the job was always easier when the patient wasn't awake to endure it.
The ward was silent, save for the labored breathing of the men, and Dana found herself grateful for the peace, however brief. She checked her pocket watch—3 a.m. Another long night. She sighed and continued through the ward, checking on a few more patients before heading back toward the makeshift office that the doctors were using as a triage center. The hospital's nurses had given up their usual space to serve as sleeping quarters for those who hadn't left in days.
Reaching the small kitchen, Dana set a kettle on the stove to boil water for coffee. It was a mundane task, almost surreal in its normalcy amidst the chaos of the hospital, but it was a necessary ritual. The coffee itself wouldn't be enough to keep her going, but it was something—a small comfort in the midst of exhaustion.
As she waited for the water to boil, her mind wandered, though she tried in vain to suppress the thoughts creeping in. No matter how much she tried to focus on the men lying in the hospital beds, her brain kept returning to the image of Rob Danyon. His lifeless body slumped against the steel mill wall, a casualty of the explosion that had sent so many of these men here in the first place.
She had been there when his wife, Mindy, had rushed into the hospital, wild-eyed and desperate to find him. Dana had intercepted her before she could tear through the ward, sparing her the unnecessary pain of looking for a husband who had never even made it to the hospital. Words weren't necessary after that. The simple exchange of a ring had told Mindy everything she needed to know.
Dana had held her as she wept, her own heart heavy with the burden of delivering yet another wife into widowhood. Tears had stung her eyes then, but she had forced them back. Doctors couldn't afford to cry.
The kettle's whistle startled her back into the present, and she moved quickly to pour the water over the coffee grounds, stirring the cup with a practiced hand. Her chest felt tight, as if the air itself was too thick to breathe, and she swallowed hard, trying to push the grief back down where it belonged. There was no time for it now.
"You have a cup for me?"
Dana jumped at the sound of Stephen's voice. She turned to see him leaning in the doorway, his face drawn with exhaustion. "Stephen. I didn't expect anyone else to be up."
"One of my patients tried to die on me," he replied, stepping forward to grab a cup. "Just the usual."
She handed him the coffee canister. "I brought my stash from home. It's better than whatever swill they've been serving here."
He raised an eyebrow. "Ground it yourself?"
"Only the best," she replied, pouring him a cup.
Stephen took a sip, clearly surprised by the quality. "Not bad at all. I might actually survive this shift."
Dana forced a smile, but her hands trembled as she held her own cup. "It's the little things keeping me sane," she murmured, absently twisting the ring on her finger.
"How are your hands doing?" he asked glancing down.
Her hands were wrapped tightly, both doctors had sustained burns on their hands and faces, but Dana's brash choice to take the wedding ring had seared her hand worse than his, causing muted pain which she ignored.
"They're okay." Dana admitted tiredly.
"Tired?"
"Aren't we all?" she said, taking a long sip of her coffee. The bitterness was bracing, a sharp contrast to the fog of exhaustion that clouded her thoughts.
Stephen drained his cup quickly. "I might as well make the rounds again while I'm up. Want to join me?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "I'd appreciate the company."
They moved through the wards together, checking on patients in silence. Stephen's movements were sharp and efficient, a surgeon's precision in every gesture. Dana worked more slowly, her touch gentle, methodical. She had always prided herself on the care she took with patients, despite chaos like this. As she wrapped fresh bandages and administered small doses of morphine, her mind wandered again to Mindy and the look on her face when she had finally understood the full weight of her loss.
"This isn't your usual territory, is it?" Dana commented, breaking the silence as they moved to the next room.
Stephen glanced at her, clearly caught off guard by the question. "No, not really. Surgery is where I'm most comfortable."
"You got a taste of that last night," Dana said, remembering the hurried, frantic operations after the steel mill explosion.
Stephen grimaced. "Dr. Martin did most of the work. I don't think he trusts me yet. He's put me back on the easy stuff."
"The easy stuff?" Dana repeated, her irritation flaring. "Is that what you think this is?"
Stephen hesitated. "I just mean... anyone could do this. It's not exactly surgery."
Dana felt her jaw clench. "Do you think that makes you better than me?"
Stephen opened his mouth to respond, but then stopped, realizing too late the implication of what he had said. He ran a hand through his hair, clearly flustered. "That's not what I meant, Dana. You know that."
But Dana wasn't in the mood to give him the benefit of the doubt and she found herself wanting to lash out. Stephen's words had struck a nerve, reminding her of all the times her work had been belittled, of how hard she had fought to even be in the same room as doctors like him.
"Forget it," she muttered, turning away before the argument could truly escalate. In reality, there wasn't anything there. If she were rested, she would have had no problem with his statement, but the overwhelmed and exhausted doctor lashed out from the stress she felt on her shoulders.
Neither of them spoke, the tension palpable. They finished their rounds in silence, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them.
Dana moved quietly through the bustling market, her eyes scanning the stands laden with fresh produce and meats. The air was alive with the scents of fresh-cut vegetables, ripe fruits, and the earthy smell of farmers who had spent the early hours preparing their goods. Wagons creaked under the weight of produce displayed with pride, drawing the attention of the throngs of customers milling about. Dana's basket, already heavy with a leg of lamb, a chicken, lettuce, and potatoes, hung from her arm, weighing her down slightly, but she wasn't quite done yet. She made her way toward a stand piled high with wares ready to negotiate for the last items on her list.
The crowd around her ebbed and flowed, a sea of people moving about with their own baskets and carts. Dana, who was usually agile in such settings, found herself jostled slightly by the press of bodies. She weaved through the crowd, sidestepping a group of women chattering about the latest news at the mill when, quite suddenly, her hip bumped into someone passing by. The impact wasn't harsh, but it was enough to draw her attention.
"Pardon me—" Dana began as she turned to see who she had collided with. Her eyes met a familiar face, and she stopped mid-sentence, her polite smile fading into something more reserved. "Oh. Dr. Reyburn."
The shift in her tone was noticeable, and her expression hardened just slightly as she regarded him.
"Dr. Whitechurch," he said, his voice equally formal.
There was a pause, a brief moment where both stood awkwardly, caught in the familiarity of shared experience but divided by lingering tensions. Dana took the lead, her voice cool and distant.
"Is your family well?" she asked, keeping the conversation civil, if not warm.
"Yes, last I heard," Stephen replied.
"Wonderful," Dana said with a slight nod. "I hope you are well."
"I am."
The exchange hung heavy in the air, like a conversation that had run its course too soon. Dana felt the strain in the words, the effort it took to maintain politeness when so much unspoken still lingered between them. Stephen shifted, his tone softening as he made another attempt. "I didn't see you at the hospital this past week," he remarked, sounding more genuine now, as if trying to extend a branch of peace.
"With most of the patients gone home, I figured it was time for me to return to my practice," she explained.
"That's unfortunate," Stephen said, a hint of regret in his voice. "You were the most capable one there."
The compliment caught Dana by surprise. "I appreciate the compliment," she said, her voice steady, "but I know that you and Dr. Martin are functioning just fine."
Stephen nodded slightly. There was a beat of silence between them, filled only by the chatter and clatter of the market around them. Then, with a surprising gesture of goodwill, he extended his hand.
"Let me take that for you," he offered, motioning to her heavy basket.
Dana paused. Her instinct was to refuse, to maintain her independence in every small way she could, but something in the weariness of the day softened her resolve, and her hands were still raw from the burns. She handed the basket to him, watching as he took it with ease.
"Thank you."
Stephen nodded, hefting the basket as though it were no trouble at all. "Are you in the market for anything else?"
Dana listed off the last few items she needed, and together they navigated the remaining stalls. Stephen followed her as she haggled with the farmers, her practiced bartering bringing down prices with skill. As they moved from stand to stand, the conversation between them remained light, filled mostly with polite exchanges about the quality of the produce or the bustling nature of the market. But there was a palpable sense of something unspoken between them, a tension neither seemed quite ready to address directly.
Finally, with her shopping complete and the basket once again full, they began the walk back toward Dana's home. The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the streets. The noise of the market gradually faded behind them, replaced by the quiet sounds of the town winding down for the evening. It was in this relative silence that Stephen finally spoke again, his voice low, serious, and honest.
"I'm sorry for my behavior the other night," he said, breaking the stillness with words that clearly weighed on him.
Dana hadn't expected an apology, not when she knew she had been overly sensitive. She pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her other hand adjusting the brim of her hat to shield her eyes from the setting sun. "I ought to apologize, too," she replied after a moment, her voice careful.
"No, no, you were justified," Stephen insisted, shaking his head. "My comments were belittling."
Dana's lips pressed together as she nodded slightly. "I know I'm oversensitive to comments along that vein," she admitted, her voice softer now. "And I know you didn't really mean anything by it."
They continued walking in silence for a while longer, the crunch of gravel under their feet the only sound. When they reached Dana's gate, Stephen set the basket down on her porch with a quiet thud, the weight of it finally off his arms.
"Dr. Whitechurch," Stephen said, his tone more formal again, "perhaps, we can start again?"
Dana turned to face him fully, her head tilting slightly as she regarded him with a contemplative expression. For a moment, she said nothing, simply considering his offer. Then, with a slow nod, she extended her hand.
"Yes," she said finally. "I think I'd like that."
Stephen smiled as he took her hand, his grip firm but not overbearing. "Dr. Whitechurch," he said with a touch of warmth in his voice, "it's a pleasure to work with you. I look forward to our future relationship."
Dana returned his smile, though hers was more reserved. "Good afternoon, Dr. Reyburn."
