Caleb 38 - Gloryhole

There was quite a long pause before she answered.

_about five thirty?

I sent her a smiley emoji and a thumbs up.

"Dana's coming for dinner," I said to the girls. They all smiled. "What do you think I should..."

They didn't even let me finish. "Moussaka!" they all said, in unison.

"Are you not getting bored with that?" I asked. "How about..."

"Moussaka!" they repeated. I held my hands up in surrender.

Amanda offered to go and pick up Dana. Since I was just finishing off some work on my computer, I didn't argue. When they arrived back, I noted that Dana looked a lot less edgy than the last time I'd seen her.

She made appropriate sounds of appreciation for the meal, and we spent the evening watching a couple of movies and talking. It was starting to get late, and I was surprised that Dana didn't seem to be making moves to leave. It wasn't that I wanted to get rid of her, but she normally left around nine. I was thinking about going to bed soon.

"She's going to stay over in the spare room," Amanda informed me. The new connection seemed to allow the girls to pick up on my surface thoughts as well as I could theirs.

"Right," I said. "It's my bedtime. Night all."

"Already?" asked Dana, looking at her watch. "It's only just ten."

"I'm up at four every morning to train," I explained. "Josh and the girls will keep you company. Don't feel you have to go to bed or get up at any specific time."

I kissed my girls goodnight, got a peck on the cheek from Louise, and a lazy hand-wave from Josh. Dana stood and gave me a brief hug and a peck on the cheek. "Goodnight," she said.

The next morning, the glory hole remained closed throughout my training. I wondered at that, but I didn't dwell. Training wasn't just a pretext for me to be outside.

I showered and made breakfast. Everyone except Dana was up by eight, and we had breakfast and then devolved into our Sunday routine, which involved catching up on work for university and lazing around. Since it was a nice day, we all made our way out onto the deck. Dana surfaced around nine thirty.

"Good morning," I said. "Sleep well?"

She nodded. "That bed is really comfy. What's that frame thing in the corner?"

"You don't want to know," I said.

Dana looked at Amanda, who was smirking. "What?" asked Dana.

"Ignore her," I said. "Do you want some breakfast?"

"I don't want to be any trouble," she said.

"Nonsense. Pancakes and bacon?"

Judging from her expression, that seemed to appeal, so I went and cooked some for her.

"You staying for lunch?" I asked.

"If that's okay," she said.

"Wouldn't ask if it wasn't," I replied.

We spent the rest of the morning as above, and I served lunch at one. A Sunday roast had become our norm. I was starting to feel like we were getting embedded in a routine. I didn't mind.

Dana eventually said that she had to go and get ready for the next week, and Louise took her home at around four.

Monday morning started the new week. I looked at the calendar as I walked through the kitchen on my way out. There were four weeks to the start of our exams, and five weeks to when Ness, Dean and Cheryl were going to come down to stay - Ness permanently. I regarded the dining table. It wasn't going to be big enough. With just our family, including Dean and Cheryl, there would be seven. Josh and Louise made nine. If Gracie was back, that would be ten. Dana would make eleven, and that wouldn't just be crowded; it would be untenable. There was plenty of floorspace available for a bigger table, so I decided that I would get one to seat between twelve and fourteen, depending on price. We seemed to have enough plates and dishes to serve about twenty at a time, so that wasn't a worry.

Training at the dojo went pretty much as usual. I discussed the issue of the table over breakfast with the girls. Jules, ever the practical one, grabbed her laptop, and we looked through some possibilities. The prices staggered me. Louise suggested one that could be extended, but after some thought, we decided we wanted one that was out all the time. Otherwise, we would have dining chairs with nowhere to go. We finally settled on an eighteen-seat one and dug an eight-thousand-dollar hole in my bank account to order it online. It, and the chairs, were to be delivered in about ten days.

I was surprised later in the day when I happened to look at my bank balance and found that six thousand of the eight had reappeared. I checked my transactions and saw that Jules and the girls had each transferred two thousand dollars to my account.

"Why did you transfer money to me?" I sent to them as soon as I saw it. In response I got a scrap of memory. It was part of the conversation I had had with Dean, when he'd told me I had to get my head out of my ass and realize that being partners with the girls meant that they shared everything, including the burdens and expenses.

"It's either that, or we set up a joint bank account," sent Jules. "Your choice."

I knew if that happened it would be incredibly one-sided. All of the girls had considerably more money than I did. Mary and Amanda had access to millions between them, and I had no idea how rich the Steadman family was.

"Okay," I sent, trying not to appear petulant. "Thanks."

I felt some amusement from the twins and some 'traffic' between the twins and Jules. I guessed they were congratulating each other on the 'win.'

Later, I met up with Jeevan in the hospital parking garage. We walked up the fifteen flights of stairs to the children's ward.

When we arrived at the children's ward, Christina and her mother weren't there. Jeevan spoke to the lead nurse, who told him that she had been discharged, since her tumor seemed to have gone into full remission. The nurse was delighted with the outcome, but cautioned us that 'remission' didn't mean 'cure.' They had had several cases where children in remission had returned later. All the same, she was able to be happy for Christina.

"Are we going to help another child here?" I asked him, careful not to let the nurse or anyone else hear.

He shook his head. "I need to show you trauma," he said. "We could, in all honesty, spend our lives up here. We will return in the coming weeks to help others. We have to be cautious, though. Too many 'miracles' in the same place attract attention. We do what we can."

"But what about..."

"Think about it, Bhaiya," he said. "Even you have only so much power. You can only help so many people. It is not as if we are ignoring them and going away to watch television. We WILL be helping someone tonight. As much as it's impossible to do, I caution you to not get attached to those you try to help. You will only make yourself unhappy. In this, you have to be like a doctor. Do what you can, for whom you can, and hope that someone or something else will come along to help the ones you cannot."

I wondered then if my plan to join the FBI was the right way to go. Fighting crime wasn't 'watching television,' but it felt a lot closer to that than to spending more time Healing.

"And who would stop the 'wild' users from abusing innocents?" asked Jeevan, clearly catching my thoughts. "Each of us has their calling. Yours is no less noble than mine. Having the knowledge and skills to Heal will be very useful to you in your career with the FBI, and I'm sure that we will avail ourselves of your power plenty in the years to come. Don't get sidetracked. There are so many causes you could put your power to, but you are only one man. You cannot do everything."

I knew he was right. I was already rushing around like a chicken without a head, and I hadn't even started my career yet. I knew that once I joined the FBI I would have to curtail almost all my extracurricular activities and concentrate on that. I had just over a year before I graduated - one year left to get in as much training as I could.

We took the elevator down to the ER and looked around. There was the same smattering of minor injuries and walking wounded that we had seen last week. We walked around, seemingly invisible to the staff. I wasn't sure if it was the uniforms or if Jeevan was exerting some influence. I couldn't see him doing anything, but he was far more skilled than I.

The question seemed to be settled when we were hailed by a man in scrubs. I presumed he was a doctor. He told us that the lights were flickering on and off in one of the exam rooms, and asked if we could replace the tube. Jeevan nodded and went to a store cupboard, where there were apparently spares. We went into the exam room, and he used his TK to swap out the tube. Ten minutes later the issue was fixed, and we were back prowling the floor.

I jumped when a heard a two-tone klaxon sound. Jeevan stiffened and began to walk quickly toward the main nurses station of the department.

"What's that?" I asked as I followed him.

"It's a warning telling the staff that paramedics want to alert them to an incoming patient," he answered. "Listen."

We rounded a corner in time to see a nurse pick up a microphone.

"ER; go ahead," she said. She had a pad of forms in front of her and she, pen in hand, was poised to take down details.

I heard shouting coming from the radio, but the background noise of the siren and bangs and crashes - presumably from the vehicle as it was being driven at speed, made it impossible for me to understand anything that was said. The nurse was obviously much more experienced than I. She jotted down some notes on the pad. The only part of the conversation I understood was "ETA eight minutes."

Once the call ended the nurse picked up another microphone and held it to her mouth. "Trauma team standby, Trauma team standby. Adult Female, GSW, ETA eight minutes."

Two doctors, two nurses and three orderlies went and stood outside the ambulance entrance. They were all putting on gloves, gowns and masks. I expected them to be tense in preparation for what they would have to face, but they were chatting quietly among themselves, and I heard one laugh at something another one said.

Soon we could hear the wail of a siren, announcing the approach of the ambulance, and a minute later the vehicle drew up to the doors. The team swung into action.

The driver of the ambulance jumped out of the cab and opened the back door. They quickly unloaded the gurney with the patient on it; all the while, the paramedic from inside the vehicle was talking in a loud, clear voice so the whole team could hear.

"We have a Jane Doe," he began. "Mid-twenties. GSW to chest and abdomen. I counted four holes, but there may be more. She's lost a lot of blood. I put a large gauge line in both arms..." The paramedic continued to hand over the patient as they rushed the gurney through the doors and into the department.

"Trauma three," said the triage nurse as they entered, and they wheeled the patient down the corridor and into one of the trauma bays.

I looked down at the woman as the team passed by. Blood was dripping off the side of the gurney and leaving a trail on the ground as they moved. I saw the patient's arm, which was covered in bruises. She had obviously been beaten before she had been shot. Her face was so swollen that her eyes were shut. I wondered if even her own mother would have been able to recognize her. The paramedic was holding an oxygen mask over her face, and her black hair fanned out like a halo around her head. It was so black that, in the stark lights of the ED, it almost glimmered blue.

Then the realization hit: it didn't just appear blue; those were blue highlights in her hair.

Jane Doe wasn't a Jane Doe, she was Gracie Jordan, the FBI agent I'd helped.