Chapter 21 - Sera
The clinic buzzes with muted efficiency, staff moving in practiced patterns like blood cells through veins.
I've been here for three hours, mind still ringing with the echo of Dylan's words: A life with you as my mate sounds like hell on earth.
Every time the memory surfaces, I push it down, focusing instead on patient charts, medication schedules, and anything that requires concentration.
"Sera?" Diane appears at my elbow, clipboard in hand. "We've got an emergency coming in. Ten-year-old boy, predator encounter near Blackberry Creek."
My heart stutters. "How serious?"
"Conscious and stable. ETA five minutes." Her thin lips press together. "Dr. Sanders wants you on this—test your trauma skills."
Translation: observe how I handle a supposed shifter attack.
I nod, moving automatically toward the trauma bay to prepare supplies.
The double doors burst open minutes later, EMTs wheeling in a small figure on a stretcher.
The boy's face is pale beneath a shock of red hair, eyes wide with fear.
Gauze wraps his right arm and shoulder, small spots of blood seeping through.
"Sam Mitchell, age ten," the lead EMT reports. "Lacerations to the right shoulder and upper arm. Stable vitals. Parents en route."
I step forward, voice gentle. "Hi Sam, I'm Sera. We're going to take good care of you, okay?"
He nods, teeth worrying his lower lip.
"Can you tell me what happened while I check your wounds?"
"A—a wolf attacked me," he stammers, eyes darting to Diane, who hovers nearby. "In the woods behind our house."
I work carefully, removing the field dressing. The wounds reveal themselves—four parallel lacerations across his shoulder, a deeper puncture near his collarbone. Clean edges, minimal tearing.
These aren't wolf bites. Not even close.
Wolf attacks create crushing injuries, deep punctures from canines, massive tissue trauma. These are... dog scratches. Maybe a medium-sized breed, agitated but not trying to kill.
I continue my assessment, noting the spacing between wounds. "This wolf—was it very big?"
Sam's eyes flick to Diane again before answering. "Huge. Bigger than any dog."
But I've seen actual wolf attacks. Treated victims of actual shifters losing control. This isn't it.
"It must have been scary," I say, maintaining professional detachment while my mind races. "These wounds are fairly clean, though—that's good news."
Diane steps closer. "Classic predator pattern, wouldn't you say, Sera? Consistent with the other attacks we've seen?"
The question is a test. I feel it like a scalpel against skin.
"I'd need to see the documentation on those other cases to make a comparison," I hedge. "But we'll definitely clean these thoroughly to prevent infection."
When Diane moves to fetch supplies, I lean closer to Sam.
"It's okay to tell me what really happened," I whisper, hands busy with cleaning the wounds. "I just want to make sure we're treating you properly."
His eyes widen, tears suddenly threatening. "It was Mr. Carlson's dog," he breathes, barely audible. "Rex. He got out of the yard and jumped me. Dad says I have to say it was a wolf or people will think I'm lying."
"Why would they think—"
"Because everyone knows there are monsters in the woods," he whispers. "Dad says the town needs to know how dangerous they are."
The implications hit me like a physical blow. They're manufacturing evidence. Creating fake attack stories to support their paranoia.
"Sam, you don't have to—"
The trauma bay doors swing open again. A man with Sam's red hair strides in, followed by a thin blonde woman and—my stomach drops—Sheriff Donovan.
"Sammy!" The woman rushes to the bedside, gathering his good hand in hers.
"He's going to be fine," I assure her, professional mask sliding back into place. "The wounds are clean, no major tissue damage."
The father steps forward, eyes hard beneath his concern. "He tell you what happened?"
"He mentioned a wolf attack," I say carefully. "But the injury pattern actually suggests—"
"Damn beasts," he interrupts, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Getting bolder every day."
Donovan approaches, notepad in hand. "Going to need a statement for the incident report. Another confirmation of shifter activity so close to town."
I can't stop myself. "Sheriff, these wounds aren't consistent with a wolf attack. The spacing and depth suggest a smaller animal, possibly a—"
"With all due respect, Mrs. Winters," Donovan cuts in, voice silky with warning, "we've handled plenty of these cases. The boy says it was a wolf, and we have no reason to doubt him."
"But medically speaking—"
"We appreciate your care," Sam's father interrupts, suddenly eager to leave. "Can we take him home now?"
Diane appears at my side. "I'll handle the discharge paperwork. You should check on Mrs. Geller in room three."
The dismissal is unmistakable. I stand rooted as they bundle Sam toward the exit, his eyes meeting mine briefly over his mother's shoulder—frightened, confused, apologetic.
"Wait," I call, following them. "He really should have these wounds properly dressed and—"
But they're already gone, Donovan's hand firm on the father's back, guiding them away from me, from questions, from truth.
***
The Mitchell house sits at the edge of town, a modest two-story surrounded by pine trees. Lights glow in the downstairs windows as I park a half-mile away, approaching on foot through the gathering darkness.
I've texted Dylan three times. No response. Whatever "special operation" he's involved in tonight has taken him beyond communication.
Which means I'm alone in this recklessness.
I move silently toward the house, grateful for the cloud-covered moon hiding my approach. From the edge of the yard, I can see the family through the kitchen window—mother washing dishes, father at the table, Sam's red hair visible as he bends over what looks like homework.
A normal family scene built on manufactured terror.
I hesitate at the tree line. What exactly is my plan here? Confront them? Expose the lie? To what end?
Before I can retreat, a dog barks sharply from behind the house. Sam's head snaps up, face turning toward the window. Our eyes meet across the darkened yard, his widening in recognition.
Seconds later, the back door opens. "Hello?" he calls softly. "Nurse Sera?"
I step forward, heart hammering. "Hi Sam. I just wanted to check how you're doing."
He glances nervously over his shoulder. "Dad's inside. You shouldn't be here."
"I know. I'm sorry, but—those weren't wolf injuries, Sam. We both know that."
His small face crumples. "Rex didn't mean it. He's not bad."
"I believe you," I say gently. "But why is your dad making you lie?"
"He said—" Sam stops as the back door opens wider.
"Sammy? Who are you talking to?" His father appears, expression shifting from confusion to wariness as he spots me. "Mrs. Winters? What are you doing at my home?"
I straighten, abandoning pretense. "Your son wasn't attacked by a wolf, Mr. Mitchell. As a medical professional, I can't ignore falsified reports—especially ones that fuel dangerous prejudice."
"Sam, go inside," he orders. The boy hesitates, then disappears into the house.
Mitchell steps into the yard, closing the door behind him. "You have no right to come here."
"And you have no right to use your son to spread lies," I counter. "Why? What do you gain from this?"
Something unexpected flickers across his face—not anger, but fear.
"You don't understand," he says, voice lowering. "Things are happening in this town. The Guardians... they're not what they seem."
"What do you mean?"
He glances nervously toward the house. "You think… listen, do you seriously think they just let people not join up? If I want to keep my family safe, I don’t have a choice. There’s a level of… involvement that’s expected."
Cold dread pools in my stomach. "And the fake attack reports?"
"They needed evidence. Public support." Shame crosses his features. "I thought I was keeping my family safe by going along with it. But now they're arming everyone, distributing silver ammunition, talking about… bad things. This isn't what I signed up for."
Suddenly, headlights sweep across the front of the house. I hear the roar of an engine out on the road.
Mitchell's face pales. "You need to go. Now. If they find you here—"
"Mr. Mitchell, come with me. Bring your family. I can help—"
"Go!" he hisses, already retreating toward the house. "They check on us. They watch the ones who hesitate."
I melt back into the trees as truck doors slam in the driveway. The last thing I see is Mitchell's face in the kitchen window—a man trapped between monsters of his own making and the real monsters he fears they've become.
Then, with no other option, I turn and run headlong into the woods.