Something in his voice — a note of authority that brooked no disagreement — made my legs move without conscious thought. I climbed into the passenger seat of his pickup, noting the meticulous cleanliness, the lack of personal items, the way even his vehicle seemed to reflect his emotional distance.
Kellen started the engine without another word, and we pulled out of the garage into the night.
The drive took us through parts of the city I barely recognized. Industrial areas filled with warehouses and chain-link fences, neighborhoods where the streetlights were sparse and the buildings looked like they'd given up on better days. Kellen navigated the empty streets with obvious purpose, never explaining where we were going or why.
We pulled up in front of a squat, windowless cinderblock building with a single flickering neon sign that simply read "BAR." No name, no decoration, just a statement as blunt and uncompromising as the man who'd brought me here.
"Come on," Kellen said, climbing out of the truck.
The interior was exactly what the exterior had promised — dark, smelling of stale beer and industrial-strength bleach, populated by a handful of people who looked like they'd been carved from the same unforgiving stone as the building itself. The bartender, a woman who appeared to have been working here since the Earth was young, looked up as we entered with the kind of practiced indifference that suggested she'd seen everything and been impressed by none of it.
Kellen steered me toward a booth in the back, the kind of scarred wooden table that had probably absorbed decades ofbad decisions and worse conversations. I slid into the worn vinyl seat, still too confused and exhausted to question what was happening.
"Two glasses, please," Kellen told the bartender when she materialized beside our table.
I watched, my confusion deepening, as he unvelcroed a leg pocket on his cargo pants and withdrew a bottle that made my eyebrows rise. Blanton's. Single barrel bourbon that cost more than most people spent on groceries in a month.
"Hey, buddy, you want to drink here, you buy it here. State Beverage Commission’ll fine the shit out of us," the bartender said, unimpressed by the expensive liquor.
Kellen pulled out his wallet, extracted a one-hundred dollar bill from it, and placed it on the table. "Two glasses, one with ice. We don’t need anything else. Thanks."
His voice carried that same flat authority that made attending physicians instantly defer to his judgment. The glasses appeared with only the briefest delay.
When we were alone, Kellen poured two generous measures of bourbon, the amber liquid catching the dim light from the flickering fixture overhead. He pushed the glass with ice toward me and raised his own.
"Drink," he said.
I took a sip and immediately started coughing. The bourbon was smooth but powerful, burning its way down my throat with the kind of authority that demanded respect. Kellen drained half his glass without so much as a wince, then set it down evenly.
"Jesus," I wheezed, my eyes watering.
"Good stuff, isn’t it," Kellen said, a statement rather than a question. He topped off my glass without asking. "Drink up, Dalton. We've got things to discuss."
I took another drink, feeling the warmth spread through my chest. "What things?"
"You've been different lately," he said, his flat voice making itsound like a medical diagnosis. "Going through the motions. I've been watching you."
The bourbon was starting to soften the edges of my exhaustion, but his words made me defensive. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"Bullshit." Kellen's expression didn't change, but there was something sharp in his voice. "I've seen tired. This isn't tired. This is something else."
I took another drink, larger this time, feeling the alcohol burn away some of my resistance. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"The hell you don't." He leaned back in the booth, studying me with the same clinical assessment he brought to difficult diagnoses. "You used to light up the whole department. People looked forward to working with you. Now you move around there like a ghost."
The bourbon was making me feel loose, unmoored. "Maybe that's just who I really am."
"No." Kellen's voice was firm, certain. "I know who you really are, Dalton. I've watched you with patients, with the new grads, with families having the worst day of their lives. You're not this hollow thing pretending to be a nurse."
I finished my glass and reached for the bottle. Kellen didn't stop me. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you're in love with that firefighter," he said, and the words landed like a sledgehammer. "I know you're walking around here like a man who's lost everything that mattered to him. And I know you're doing exactly what I did years ago."
"What's that?"
"Trying to protect yourself from caring by pretending you don't." He poured himself another drink, his movements deliberate and controlled. "How's that working out for you?"
The bourbon was making my tongue loose, my defenses crumbling. "I'm fine."
