Page 65 of Never Quite Gone

“Really?” I couldn't keep the skepticism from my voice. “Could have fooled me with all those performance reviews.”

Vale's smile held surprising warmth. “Professional rivalry doesn't preclude professional respect, Dr. Monroe.”

Before I could respond, trauma alerts started blaring. Multiple casualties from a highway pileup, arriving in minutes. Vale and I moved in practiced synchronization, politics forgotten in the face of immediate need.

“I'll take trauma two,” he said, already gowning up. “Unless you'd prefer?—”

“No, that works.” The familiar dance of emergency medicine felt steadying. “Sofia usually—” I stopped, the name catching in my throat.

Vale gave me a sharp look but didn't comment. Instead, he just nodded toward incoming paramedics. “Shall we?”

The next hours passed in focused blur. Vale and I worked parallel traumas, consulting each other when needed, our usualantagonism replaced by professional efficiency. It felt... normal. Real. No hidden agendas or ancient patterns, just two doctors doing their jobs.

“Good catch on the subtle pneumothorax,” Vale said later, as we both caught our breath between cases. “Most would have missed it on initial assessment.”

“The patient's breathing pattern was off,” I explained, surprised to find myself having a normal conversation with him. “Something about the way he held his shoulder...”

“Instinct born of experience,” Vale nodded. “It's what makes you an excellent physician, regardless of... other complications.”

I tensed again, waiting for him to bring up my forced leave or Alex or any of the strangeness of recent months. But Vale just handed me a fresh coffee from the doctors' lounge.

“The board meets tomorrow,” he said casually. “I'll be recommending your full reinstatement, no restrictions.”

“Why?” I had to ask. “After everything...”

“Because you're a good doctor, Dr. Monroe. Whatever else is happening in your life, that hasn't changed.” He paused, something almost kind crossing his features. “And sometimes work is the best place to figure things out. Away from... external pressures.”

I studied him over my coffee cup, seeing him clearly for perhaps the first time. Not just the calculating administrator or professional rival, but a doctor who understood something about needing space to process complex truths.

“Thank you,” I said finally, meaning more than just the coffee.

Vale nodded once, then straightened his perfect suit. “Now, I believe you have patients waiting. Try not to let your excellent suture technique slow down department throughput too much.”

Just like that, we were back to normal. But something had shifted – some understanding reached without words or hidden meanings.

The rest of my shift passed in steady rhythm of patient care. My phone stayed silent in my locker, ignored messages piling upfrom Sofia, from Alex, from people whose secrets I couldn't face yet.

Here, in the emergency department, things made sense. Injuries needed healing. Patients needed care. My hands knew what to do without questioning why they knew it.

For now, that was enough.

It had to be.

Rachel's house glowed warm against the autumn evening, windows lit with the kind of welcome that made my chest ache. I'd been avoiding her calls for three days, knowing my sister would see right through whatever excuses I tried to make. David's firefighter boots were missing from their usual spot by the porch swing – night shift, which meant no buffer between me and Rachel's uncanny ability to read my soul.

The door opened before I could knock. Rachel stood with arms crossed, worry lines creasing her forehead in a way that made her look startlingly like our mother. “Three days, Elijah James Monroe,” she said, using my full name like she had when we were kids. “Three days of avoiding my calls.”

Her kitchen smelled like our mother's chicken soup – the recipe she only made when one of us was sick or heartbroken. The familiar scent hit me like a physical thing, memories of childhood comfort wrapping around me as I sank into my usual chair at her table.

“You're stress-cooking Mom's soup,” I observed, watching her move around the kitchen with practiced grace. Her pregnant belly made the movements less fluid than usual, but no less determined.

“And you're avoiding my calls.” She set a bowl in front of me with more force than necessary. “After disappearing from Alex's party, after not answering Sofia's messages, after?—”

“I slept with Alex.”

The words burst out of me like something breaking. Rachel'sspoon clattered against her bowl, the sound echoing in sudden silence. For a moment, all I could hear was the tick of the kitchen clock – the same one that had marked time in our parents' house, that had counted minutes in the hospital waiting room the night Michael died.

“Oh, Eli,” she said softly, and something in her gentle tone shattered what was left of my composure.

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