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.


"Stephen!" A desperate voice pierced through the cacophony, frantic and trembling. "Stephen, please, I need Dr. Stephen Reyburn!"

Stephen's hands stilled. He recognized that voice. His heart quickened as he snipped the last stitch, practically leaping away from the patient. Rushing into the hallway, his eyes scanned the crowd. "Grey?"

In the middle of the bustling hospital stood Grey Halevy, his shirt soaked in blood, his blind eyes wide with a panic that Stephen could feel radiating from him. Grey's usually composed demeanor had completely crumbled. He cradled a small figure in his arms.

Stephen's mind raced as he pushed through the crowded hallway. "Grey?" he called again, rushing to his friend. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Grey's voice trembled, the fear evident in every word. "An automobile hit him—about a block down. He's just a kid, maybe one of the street urchins. No one knows who he is. No one knows anything." His hands were drenched in the boy's blood, the limp form barely breathing, a weak pulse thrumming beneath his fingers.

Stephen's stomach lurched at the sight. He grabbed Grey's arm, guiding him toward the nearest empty room. "He'll need immediate surgery. Come with me."

Grey followed without a word, still clutching the boy. Stephen motioned for him to gently set the boy down on the table. Unable to see the damage, Grey could only feel the boy's warm blood still seeping through his clothes.

"You did well, Grey," Stephen said, squeezing his friend's shoulder. "Go get a nurse to take you to my office. I've got an extra shirt there. Go change."

Grey nodded slowly, reluctant but trusting Stephen to handle what came next. As he left, Dr. Martin entered, drawn by the commotion.

"What do we have here?" Dr. Martin's tone was clipped, the barest hint of concern in his voice as he glanced at the boy's almost lifeless form through his horned glasses.

Stephen's hands moved swiftly, checking the boy's pulse, his eyes scanning for injuries. "Hit by an automobile. Internal bleeding, most likely. Skull fracture, broken ribs, broken limbs—everything."

Dr. Martin's lips thinned into a line. "Where are his parents? We have to get their information before we can start surgery."

"No parents that anyone can find. He's an orphan."

"That's unfortunate."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Dr. Martin looked at him calmly, his eyes hard. "We can't operate if there's no one to pay for it. There's nothing we can do here."

Stephen's blood ran cold. "So you're just going to let him die?"

"There are other patients who need our attention, Stephen. Patients who can pay, who have families waiting for them. You know how this works."

"But he's just a boy. He has no one to advocate for him!"

"And that's exactly the problem," Dr. Martin said, his voice even, unyielding. "All we can do is make him comfortable for the end. That's our job."

Stephen's hands clenched into fists, bile rising in his throat. He was suddenly acutely aware of the blood pounding in his ears, the weight of the situation bearing down on him. "You're going to let him die because no one will pay for his surgery?"

Dr. Martin sighed, as though explaining to a child. "Even if someone paid, Stephen, look at him. He'll be a cripple, most likely brain-damaged. His quality of life will be nothing. It's a mercy to let him go. Listen, Stephen, you're young and you don't know how these things work. It's okay to be upset the first time this happens." He looked at the clock. "It's 5 PM, I'm going home and you need to as well. The nurses will attend to the boy and make him comfortable for his passing."

Stephen's vision blurred with rage. His body was numb, his mind screaming at him to do something. He ripped off his bloodstained gloves and stormed out of the room, finding Grey standing in the hallway. He had changed into the spare shirt but still looked haunted, his fingernails still stained red.

"How's the kid?" Grey asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Stephen couldn't bring himself to look at his friend. "He's going to die."

Grey's face twisted in confusion. "Aren't you going to operate? Isn't that what you do?"

Stephen's voice cracked as he fought back tears. "I can't. I can't because there's no one to pay. Dr. Martin won't help, and the nurses won't go against him; even if I did something, I need a team to maintain his stat line. He's got no one to advocate for him."

Grey stepped closer, his voice raw and quiet. "Then you be the advocate."

"I can't—" Stephen's voice broke. "I don't know what to do."

"Help him, Stephen." Grey's voice was steady now, firm. "You've saved so many people. Don't let this one be the one you couldn't."

"But what if I mess up? What if he dies under my hand?" Stephen stared at Grey, his crippling fear of failure mixed with the reality of the situation. He knew that this probably meant the end of his career, of his future in any form of medicine.

Grey didn't have to say anything. He knew the heart of his friend, and he knew that whatever decision Stephen would make would be the right one.


On the porch of a classic Victorian home, Stephen stood, breathless and wild-eyed. "Please, I need your help."


The hospital room was quiet, save for the soft clicking of the clock as Dana checked the boy's heartbeat. "He's stable enough for surgery," she said, her hands steady as she prepared the anesthetic.

Stephen's hands were trembling slightly as he set out the surgical tools. "Thank you for coming, Dana."

Dana gave him a small nod, slipping the mask over the boy's face and administering the anesthetic. "I trust you, Stephen. Let's save this boy."

The room fell into a tense silence as the surgery began. Dana's hands moved with practiced ease, shaving the boy's head and preparing the area for incision. Stephen focused entirely on the task before him, his mind narrowing to the boy's broken skull, the fractured bones beneath his hands. Every movement had to be precise; there was no room for error.

Stephen made the first incision, his heart pounding in his chest. Dana then moved to work ahead of him, cutting through layers of muscle and tissue, her hands moving with the same calm precision that had always amazed him. It wasn't unusual for a doctor in this day to possess some rudimentary skills in surgery. She was methodical and controlled. Everything about her was so different from his own rushed intensity. Yet, together, they formed an unspoken rhythm.

The boy's heart rate fluctuated, and Dana quickly adjusted the anesthetic, her eyes flicking as she checked his vitals "He's not doing well."

Stephen's breath hitched as he worked faster, the cold sweat dripping down his back. His hands moved to piece together the shattered fragments of the boy's skull, each second ticking by like a countdown toward a time when the damage would be irreparable.

Dana's fingers hovered over the boy's wrist, checking his pulse. "Steady, Stephen. You're doing fine."

Stephen's jaw clenched as he maneuvered the plates and screws into place. His vision swam as fatigue clawed at the edges of his consciousness, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't fail. Not now.

Dana's voice broke the silence. "Why did you come to Denver, Stephen? Why neurosurgery?"

Stephen blinked, his hands still moving. He knew subconsciously that she was speaking to keep him awake. She was well aware of their mission and the drain that it was on his body and mind. "Grey." His voice was hoarse. "When I found out he'd never see again… that's when I knew. I had to try, to help."

Dana glanced up, her eyes soft with understanding. Stephen's drive, his obsession with perfection, it all made sense now. "You're not here to prove anything, Stephen. You're here to help."

"I'm here because I'm terrified of failing," Stephen whispered, his hands shaking as he finished the final adjustments. "And I just… I can't fail him."

Him. Dana didn't ask if he meant the boy or if he more broadly meant that he couldn't fail Grey. Quiet for a moment, her hands moving to close the incision, she finally spoke again. "Sometimes, Stephen, it's not about being perfect. It's about doing everything you can and trusting that it's enough."

The boy's heart beat steadily now, his breathing shallow but even. For now, the worst was over.

Stephen collapsed into a chair, his body sagging with exhaustion. Dana moved to his side, her presence calming, grounding him. They sat in silence as the clock struck 4 a.m., the weight of the night pressing down on them. But for now, they had saved him.

And that was enough.