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The truce was intact. Nobody in the room was satisfied about it.

Gabriel’s eyes went to the window. The glass was streaked with yesterday’s rain. Beyond it, the trees moved in the wind. He looked at them like something he couldn’t change.

June stayed where she was. Luca remained between, a dark shape against the lighter wood of the table, and the room held its silence like a held breath.

The cold coffee sat in its mugs. The half-eaten sandwich hardened on its napkin. Outside, the wind pushed against the lodge walls and found nothing to move.

Chapter 4

Marcus had a fever patient on the table when the side door opened. The sound was wrong, not the slow creak he was used to, but something quicker, followed by the shuffle of boots and the scrape of wood against stone. Two men in work clothes he didn’t recognize came through carrying a crate between them.

“Hold still,” Marcus said. His patient was a woman in her forties with a sprained wrist. She’d slipped on the porch steps and caught herself wrong. He pressed the bandage into place and secured the ends with medical tape. The men set the crate against the wall and went back out. The door swung shut behind them.

“You’re good for four days,” Marcus said. “Change the wrap if it gets wet. Ice for twenty minutes tonight before bed.”

The woman nodded. She flexed her wrapped wrist and winced. “Thanks, Doctor.”

He walked her to the door. The main door, not the side one where the crate now sat. She stepped out into the evening, and Marcus turned back to his worktable. His logbook was open. He’d been halfway through an entry on a shifter fever case when the interruption came. He capped his pen.

The side door opened again. The two men came back with a second crate, larger than the first, and stacked it beside the other. They left without speaking. A third crate followed. Then a fourth. They lined the wall in a neat row, each one wooden, each one marked with shipping labels Marcus couldn’t read from where he stood.

He finished the log entry. He recorded the patient’s name, the diagnosis, and the treatment administered in tight, slanting handwriting. He closed the book and set it beside the blood pressure cuff.

The side door opened a fifth time. No crate this time. A man stepped through alone and closed the door behind him. He wore a dark jacket that fit his shoulders without a crease. His hair was reddish-brown, neat. His pale eyes moved across the carriage house before settling on Marcus.

“Doctor Ellery,” the man said.

Marcus didn’t answer. He wiped down the exam table with an alcohol swab and dropped the used swab into the trash.

The man waited. He stood with his hands loose at his sides, his weight balanced. He didn’t fidget or glance at the crates, and he said nothing until Marcus finished cleaning up.

“My name is Arrow,” the man said. “I’ve taken an interest in your work.”

Marcus capped the alcohol bottle. “I’m closing in ten minutes.”

“I’m aware.” Arrow stepped away from the door. He moved to the nearest crate and rested his hand on the lid. “This is an autoclave. Hospital grade. The model you’re currently using is thirty years out of date.”

Marcus looked at the crate. The wooden slats were clean. No shipping marks showed from this angle.

“The second crate contains surgical instruments. Full set. Stainless steel with titanium plating where it matters. The third is a portable diagnostic unit. Blood work, basic imaging, vitals monitoring. All of it compatible with your current electrical setup. The fourth is consumables. Gauze, sutures, sterile packaging.” Arrow’s voice was even and pleasant. He delivered each item like he was reading from a list he’d memorized. “It’s a donation. No conditions attached.”

Marcus ran his hand over the lid of the nearest crate. The wood was smooth. He didn’t open it.

“What do you want for it?” he said.

“Nothing.” Arrow smiled. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. “The people of Ashton Grove deserve access to proper care. You provide that care. The equipment you’re using is adequate but inefficient. I find inefficiency wasteful.”

“Wasteful.”

“Yes.”

Marcus opened the second crate. The instrument case inside had fitted foam and a black leather exterior. He lifted the lid. The tools gleamed under the clinic’s overhead light. Forceps, scalpels, and retractors each nested in their own cutouts, and each one was better than what he had.

He picked up a bone-handled scalpel from his old kit on the shelf and set it next to the new one. The new blade was thinner, the handle balanced. He put the old scalpel back in the drawer. “Which brands?”

“Hamilton for the autoclave. Viselli for the instruments. The diagnostic unit is a Ridgeport 400 series.”

“Compatible with my current sterilization setup?”