"When's the last time you ate?"
"Breakfast, maybe?"
"Come on." I extend my hand. "Let's get out of here."
"Thatcher, I should?—"
"Should what? Replay every decision you made in that OR?" I don't waver. "You did your job. Patient died anyway. Standing here won't change that."
She looks at my hand for a long moment. The debate plays out in silence—the part of her that wants to stay and punishherself for a death that wasn't her fault, and the part that's too tired to fight me on this.
She takes it. Her fingers are cold, her grip tight. I don't let go immediately, because her hand in mine feels like the only thing anchoring either of us right now.
"Where are we going?" she asks.
"Somewhere quiet. Off base. Where you can be Gwen for a while, not Dr. Abernathy."
The tension in her frame eases. "Let me change first. Five minutes."
She disappears into the locker room. When she emerges, she's in jeans and a sweater, hair down, the blood and surgical mask lines gone. She grabs her bag, and we head out to the parking lot.
She's exhausted. As her Range Rover is closer than my truck, I decide we'll take her vehicle instead.
"Keys?" I ask.
She digs in her bag and tosses them to me. "Thanks."
I help her into the passenger seat. The driver's side leather seat adjusts with a quiet hum, and the interior still smells new—or maybe expensive. There's a reusable coffee cup in the holder and nothing else. No clutter, no personal items. Another controlled space in a controlled life.
She watches the passing streetlights in silence. I don't push conversation. The quiet between us needs no filling.
Soon, I pull into the parking lot of Rosie's Diner. It's family-owned, the kind of place that doesn't ask questions. The building sits low and squat, white paint peeling near the roofline. Three pickup trucks and a sedan occupy the parking spaces nearest the door.
Inside, we slide into a corner booth. The vinyl seats are worn smooth, and the laminate table has water rings that won't comeout. But it's clean, and the smell of coffee and bacon grease is oddly comforting.
A waitress with gray hair brings menus and water.
Gwen orders coffee. I get the same. When the waitress leaves, Gwen meets my eyes.
"Why here?"
"Because nobody knows you here. Nobody expects anything from you." I settle against the booth. "You can exist for a while."
She takes a sip of water. "Thank you."
"You keep saying that."
"Because I mean it." Her gaze is direct. "You didn't have to do this. The protective detail doesn't require taking me to dinner."
"No, it doesn't." I don't look away. "But you looked like you needed to get away."
The waitress returns with coffee in thick ceramic mugs. We order food without really looking at the menus—burger and fries for me, grilled cheese and soup for her.
"Tell me about where you grew up," Gwen says when the waitress leaves.
The subject change surprises me. "Montana? What do you want to know?"
"Everything. What it was like growing up there. Your family. Why you left."
