But Max is already standing, stretching before padding to my side. He never lets me wander alone at night—a habit formed during our years together, especially after that incident with the injured wolf in Yellowstone.
The night air is crisp when we step outside, the temperature having dropped considerably after sunset. The sky is spectacular, a vast canvas of stars unclouded by city light pollution. I pause for a moment, simply absorbing the view. In Portland, between my clinic duties and emergency calls, I rarely take time to simply... look up.
The main lodge is partially illuminated, a warm glow emanating from what I believe is the treatment room. Jack is already there, tending to the eagle as promised. I consider turning back. He clearly values his solitude, but professional concern wins out. That eagle is my patient too.
Max and I walk quietly along the path toward the lodge. As we approach, I notice another light on in what appears to be a room at the far end of the building, separated from the main living space. Curious, but not my business, I remind myself.
When we reach the treatment room door, I knock softly before entering. Jack is inside as expected, his back to me as he prepares the antibiotic injection. He's shed the long-sleeved shirt he wore during dinner, now wearing only a fitted black t-shirt that reveals his muscular arms, and the extensive scarring I'd glimpsed earlier.
In the bright light of the treatment room, the damage is unmistakable. His left arm bears the marks of severe trauma—jagged surgical scars running from elbow to shoulder, with what appears to be graft sites visible on the upper arm. The right isn't as severely marked but shows evidence of multiple injuries.
He turns at my knock, surprise giving way to something more complex when he realizes I've seen what he keeps so carefully hidden. For a moment, he's frozen, caught between the instinct to cover himself and the practicality of holding the prepared medication.
"I thought you were sleeping," he says finally, his voice deliberately neutral.
"Couldn't settle," I reply, keeping my eyes on his face rather than his arms, though the effort costs me. Professional courtesy. "Thought I'd check on our patient."
Jack's jaw tightens, but he gives a short nod. "She's responsive. No signs of increased distress."
I move toward the enclosure, giving him space while also bringing myself into a position to observe the eagle. She's alert despite the late hour, her fierce eyes tracking my movement.
"You're right," I agree. "Her posture is good, eyes clear." I glance at the prepared syringe in his hand. "Perfect dosage, by the way."
Something flickers across Jack's face—surprise, perhaps, that I'm not commenting on what I've seen. Or relief.
"Ready?" he asks, nodding toward the enclosure.
We fall into the now-familiar routine. Jack gently securing the eagle while I administer the medication. His hands are steady, his movements confident despite knowing I'm now aware of his injuries. The eagle accepts the treatment with minimal resistance, which is a good sign in itself.
"She's improving already," I observe as Jack returns her to the perch. "The antibiotics are definitely working."
"Faster than expected," he agrees. "Your diagnosis was spot on."
"Thank you. But your initial care made a significant difference. Another day without treatment and we'd be looking at a much more dangerous infection."
Jack merely nods, turning away to dispose of the used needle and gloves. His movements are efficient but I notice small compensations—the way he favors his right side slightly, how he adjusts his grip to accommodate what must be limited mobility in his left arm.
"The midnight check is important," I say, filling the silence. "The way infection responds to the first twenty-four hours of treatment tells us a lot about prognosis."
"I'm familiar with the protocol," he replies, not quite sharply but with a definite edge.
I bite back my first response, reminding myself that he's probably self-conscious now that I've seen his scars. Instead, I focus on checking the eagle's water and adjusting the heat lamp to ensure proper overnight temperature.
"I'll let you finish up," I say finally, stepping back from the enclosure. "Just wanted to confirm she was responding well."
Jack turns to me. "She is. You can sleep easy."
"Thank you. I always sleep better knowing my patients are stable."
"You're not going to ask," Jack states, his eyes meeting mine directly for what feels like the first time.
I hold his gaze. "About your arms? No. That's your story to tell or not tell."
Something that might be surprise crosses his face. "Most people would."
"I'm not most people," I reply simply. "And I respect privacy. Professional courtesy."
Jack studies me for a moment longer, then gives a short nod, as if confirming something to himself.