Page 59 of Meet Me on Greenwood

We could hear the sound of boots on dirt pounded behind us as his attackers put distance between themselves and whatever had just happened.

"What was that?" Houston asked, breathing hard against my shoulder.

"A distraction."

"That was not a distraction. That was—" He stopped. Tried again.

"Houston." I kept walking. "Paul is waiting."

He went quiet. I could feel him looking at the side of my face as we moved through the scattered crowd. "Thank you," he said finally, "for getting Paul out of there."

I said nothing only because I could feel he meant the words and I did not want to admit the unnerving affect it had one me.

Dr. Brown was already on his feet when we burst through the opening of his tent.

"What is this?" he said, taking in Houston's face, Paul's state, and me somewhere in the middle of both.

"Don’t worry about me, Perry," Houston gasped. "Check on Paul."

Paul flinched as Perry turned to him. "Go away! Stay away from her."

Perry stopped and looked over at me. The question in his eyes was clear — do I need to remove you from this situation? I gave him a small shake of my head.

"It's alright, Paul." I stepped forward. "Houston is here. Dr. Brown only wants to make sure you're okay."

"No, I don’t think so. I think he wants to hurt you. No one will ever harm you again," he said, gripping my arm. I did my best not to wince.

"Paul," Houston wheezed. "Do you recognize me? We came here together. You are my patient."

"No!" he screamed. "I don’t know you!"

Houston fell silent. I shot him a look—let me.

"Paul." I kept my voice low and even, the way I would speak to one of my own patients. "Look at me."

He turned, his grip on my arm loosening slightly.

"It's alright. Nobody is going to hurt me. I promise you."

"You always say that," he said, something raw moved across his face. "You always say that and then—"

"And then what?"

His jaw worked. His eyes filled.

"You left," he said. "You went and you didn't come back."

I understood then he was seeing someone who wasn’t me. Without warning, my clinical training kicked in.

"Paul," I said carefully. "I'm right here. I'm right here with you."

He looked at me. Really looked, in a way he hadn't yet—past whatever he'd been seeing before, down to the actual face in front of him. I watched the fog thin behind his eyes.

"You're not her," he whispered.

"Paul—"

"You're not her." His voice climbed fast, the grief curdling into something unsteady and dangerous. "You said you were, why did you say that, why did you—"