Page 6 of Brotan

"You're in the right place then," she says, gesturing to the building I've parked in front of. "I'm Helen. I waitress at Greene's diner, but I've been keeping an eye on things since Dr. Morris left two years ago."

"Two years?" The words slip out before I can stop them. "This town hasn't had a doctor in two years?"

Helen's mouth twists in what might be a smile or a grimace. "Victor Hargrove made sure of that. Ran everyone out who wouldn't sell to him." She jerks her chin toward the building. "Come on in. I've got the keys. Place needs work, but most of the equipment's still there."

I follow her into what will apparently be my new workplace. The interior is exactly what I expected—dusty, dated, but surprisingly intact. Examination rooms branch off a small waiting area with a lab and an office in the back. Basic equipment sits covered in cloth.

"It's..." I begin, not sure how to finish.

"It needs a lot of work," Helen supplies helpfully, her eyes crinkling at the corners when she smiles. "I'm sure Hammer will have the club boys over here helping you set up when you're ready. They may look rough, but the town has come to trust them for a reason."

I run my finger along the reception desk, leaving a clean line in the dust. "Why did your Hammer person call me specifically? There must be plenty of doctors looking for work."

Helen shrugs, her gaze more perceptive than her casual tone suggests. "Hammer has his reasons. The man plays chess while the rest of us are playing checkers." She hands me a set of keys. "Clinic's yours. The little bungalow next door is included—small, but clean. I stocked the fridge with basics. Town meeting's tonight at seven at Greene's diner. You should come, meet everyone."

And then she's gone, leaving me alone in a clinic to face my uncertain future.

I spend the next few hours cleaning, unpacking the few medical supplies I brought, taking inventory of what's usable and what needs replacing. The work keeps my hands busy while my mind circles the same questions: Why am I here? Can I actually help these people? Will I kill someone else by trying?

By late afternoon, I've made enough progress to need a break. My stomach reminds me that I skipped lunch. I remember seeing Greene's Diner about a mile before the clinic, and food sounds good right now. Not to mention the sooner I'm seen in town, the faster patients will learn to trust me.

The air outside hits differently than New York—cleaner, carrying hints of pine and distant wood smoke, with an undercurrent of red Georgia clay after yesterday's rain. I take a deep breath, trying to reset. This is what I wanted. A new start. A place where I can treat patients on my own terms. Hammer made it very clear he'd be footing the bill for my services as long as I agreed to treat anyone in need of my help.

The diner's neon sign glows even in daylight—"Greene's" in faded blue cursive. A brass bell sounds as I push open the door. The place is nearly empty—just a couple of old men at a booth near the window and Helen behind the counter.

"Doc!" she calls. "Perfect timing. Lunch rush is over. Grab any seat."

I slide onto a stool at the counter and accept the laminated menu she pushes my way. "Coffee, please. Strong as you can make it."

"Have you already put yourself to work?" she asks while pouring.

"Not soon enough," I mutter, scanning the menu.

That's when the bell at the door sounds again. I don't turn, just continue reading the bewildering array of items guaranteed to tickle the tastebuds and clog the arteries. I settle on a hamburger with a side salad and start to give Helen my order, but her attention is focused on something over my shoulder.

"Well, don't you have perfect timing?" she says to whoever's entered. "The new doctor just arrived from New York and could probably use some of your muscle to get settled in."

"After I take this order to Diesel."

That voice. Before I even turn around, something in me knows—a bone-deep recognition that makes no sense.

I swivel my stool, coffee forgotten.

No way.

No fucking way.

He fills the doorway like a sentry—six and a half feet of green-skinned muscle wrapped in a leather vest emblazoned with the Ironborn MC patch.

My clinical gaze automatically catalogs what's changed since I treated him: the knife wound on his left bicep has healed to a pale line, his formerly split lip shows no trace of damage, but a new scar bisects his right eyebrow that wasn't there six months ago. Arms crossed over his chest, scars visible on the exposed skin, tusks glinting in the diner's overhead lights.

Crow.

The orc I patched up in the back of an ambulance six months ago. The one whose eyes bored into mine with an intensity I still can't shake. The one who disappeared into the night with a gravelly "I owe you, Doc" that occasionally echoes in my dreams.

My brain short-circuits as I try to make sense of this impossible coincidence. How? How is he here, in the same backwater Georgia town where I've come to start over? What are the odds? Is this some cosmic joke at my expense?

His gaze sweeps the diner, predatory and assessing, until it lands on me. Recognition flashes in those amber eyes, followed by something that looks like alarm before his expression shutters completely.

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