When he’d applied for the trauma surgeon position at Hepplewhite General, the board members who’d interviewed him had explained the hospital was undergoing a period of expansion and regeneration. There had been a sizable, anonymous donation, which, coming at exactly the right time, had allowed them to purchase land where an old warehouse had stood and begin construction to increase their capacity by twenty percent.

As the surrounding neighborhood was also undergoing some regentrification, they’d been able to raise additional funds to revamp the emergency room and surgical floor. Hepplewhite had always been rated a level two trauma center but the plan was for it to be ungraded to a level one, once all the improvements were finished. Cort didn’t mind that things were in flux. Serving in the Army Medical Corps had made him pretty much immune to chaos and, since he’d wanted to move from Denver as soon as possible, taking the job had been a no-brainer.

Walking alongside Chief of Surgery Dr. Gregory Hammond, Cort tried to take in everything the older man said, although he knew, from experience, it was only with time that he’d remember it all.

“There have been, in the past, some...friction between the ER staff and the surgeons, but we’re working assiduously to iron everything out before the expansion of the hospital is complete. Once we’re upgraded to a level one trauma center, we must have things running smoothly.”

“Of course.”

No doubt he’d find out soon enough what types of friction Dr. Hammond referred to. Yet, in Cort’s experience, there were always disputes between ER and Trauma, no matter how smoothly the hospital was run. That was just a product of human nature, and the instinctive need most doctors had to be in control.

They’d toured the surgical floor, and Cort was aware of the stares and murmurs of the staff as Dr. Hammond and he passed by, the searching glances of those he was introduced to. Not unusual, or unexpected, since everyone would want to check out the new surgeon, but he’d started to feel a bit like a specimen in a bottle. Something strange, like a teratoma, or a two-headed fetal pig—seldom seen and therefore gawk-worthy.

It didn’t really bother him, though. He’d gone through too much in his life to be annoyed or made uncomfortable by others’ curiosity.

Downstairs now, Dr. Hammond was showing him the construction zone, explaining what the various rooms still being built would be and how the new configuration would work.

“The expansion should be completed in about four to six months, and we’ll be hiring new staff to fill the newly created positions in Trauma. There will be a slowdown in our emergency intake, so all the departments can be set up, and, as the board of directors indicated, you’ll be assigned some general surgery cases to keep you busy.”

Dr. Hammond turned down another corridor lined with heavy plastic sheets to contain the dust, beyond which a construction crew was working. There was a flurry of sound as an air hammer started up, and then the cacophony was overlaid by shouts.

“Hey, stop—stop—stop—stop!” followed by a string of curses so foul they would have made a sailor blush.

Dr. Hammond’s face took on the pained expression of a man not used to such salty language, and he picked up the pace, heading for the exit at the end of the corridor. Once on the other side of the door, the noise reduced to almost nothing, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Sorry about that. Huh, construction workers.”

His disgusted tone made Cort’s hackles rise, but he didn’t have time to say anything as just then the other man’s cell phone rang. Taking it out, Dr. Hammond glanced at the screen and was already moving away as he said, “Excuse me a moment, Smith. It’s my assistant.”

Cort sighed. His annoyance faded, to be replaced by amusement at the memory of the older man’s expression, but with it came familiar pain.

Brody had cursed like that all the time, even when he hadn’t been on a job site.

“My goodness, Brody. Not in front of the kids,” his wife, Jenna, would say after a particularly colorful outburst.

Hearing it had sometimes felt like going back in time to the foster home where Cort and Brody had met as teenagers. Except back then the admonition would usually come with a backhand slap from one of their foster parents too. Brody and Cort had always agreed that the place wasn’t the worst either of them had been in, but they had both been glad to age out of the system and leave it behind.

They’d stayed close, even when life had taken them in different directions, Cort to the army and Brody into construction. The only reason Cort had returned to Denver when he’d been on leave, rather than travel the world the way he’d always wanted to, had been to see Brody and Jenna. He’d stood as godfather for their son, had luckily been on leave and in the hospital waiting room when their daughter had been born. They’d been the closest thing to family he had.

Brody’s death had sent him reeling and, coming just before Cort had been due to reenlist, had seemed like a sign. How could he not have known his best friend had been in so much pain? He’d known, of course, about Brody’s original, job-related injury, but not that his best friend had descended into a full-blown opiate addiction. Jenna said she hadn’t known either, but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with. Cort felt as though he should have known, despite being so far away.

He’d always promised Brody to look after Jenna and the kids should anything happen, but leaving the army hadn’t been easy since it had been his life for so long. But there really hadn’t been an option, and he’d headed back to Denver when his tour was over and his contract had expired.

Now, in hindsight, he realized he’d been drifting along ever since.

Even getting engaged to Mimi had been done almost unthinkingly. She was Jenna’s cousin, and she and Cort had gotten close during the dark days following Brody’s death. It had felt good to be a part of Jenna’s wider family, and when Mimi had hinted it was time to get married, Cort had agreed without thinking too deeply about what that entailed.

Three weeks before the wedding she’d called it off, saying she just didn’t think it would work out. That she’d realized she didn’t love him enough to be his wife, and she’d already found someone else.

After months of soul-searching, Cort knew he’d been unfair to Mimi. In a way, she’d been a crutch, holding him up after Brody’s death. An imperfect replacement for the companionship he’d lost.

Despite the embarrassment and hurt, he’d known she’d been right not to go through with it.

Brody had always been the one who’d longed for a family, for roots, while Cort had wanted to see as much of the world as possible. Perhaps the difference stemmed from the fact Brody had lived with his mother until the age of seven, and knew what it was like to be a part of a real family. Cort had never had that, and knew he wasn’t cut out to be a part of a family, didn’t even know how to be.

Apparently he wasn’t even fit to be a family member by proxy either since, soon after, Jenna too had cut him loose.

“Me and the kids, we’ll be fine,” she said, while they sat on her back step. “Mimi is a flake for waiting so long to break things off, and I know you’re just hanging around here because of us. Brody always said you wanted to see the world. Go. Do it.”

The sadness had weighed so heavily in his chest he’d been unable to even look at her. How many evenings like this had he and Brody sat in this same spot, beers in hand, talking? The twilight sky had gleamed between the branches, and a cool wind, harbinger of fall, had rustled the leaves, making them whisper and sigh. Her words had felt like another rejection, in no way softened by the squeeze of her fingers on his shoulder.