4 - Dog
The usual clang of hammers and buzz of saws was noticeably absent.
Dog glanced at his watch. Lunchtime. Most of the crew would be out back, taking a much-needed break from the relentless construction.
He could faintly hear the rumble of male voices and an occasional booming laugh carried on the crisp mountain air.
Dog breathed in the scent of fresh pine and sawdust, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of blood and burning jet fuel that still haunted his dreams. He stood in the main reception area of the two-story building attached to the local medical examiner’s office, which was run by his SEAL teammate Bear’s wife, Flora.
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, shimmering ghosts.
His gaze drifted downward to the dull ache settling deep in his hip.
At the crash, he had shrugged it off as nothing more than a bad strain or muscle bruise, convinced adrenaline and duty would carry him through.
He hadn’t allowed himself to slow down, patching wounds, setting broken bones, even as the pain throbbed with every step.
It wasn’t until recently, when the persistent limp became impossible to ignore, that X-rays revealed a subtle hairline fracture nestled inside his pelvis, a slow-burning reminder that sometimes the most stubborn injuries lay beneath the surface.
For all his toughness, that hidden crack mirrored a vulnerability he rarely let show; a quiet fracture beneath the confident medic who held his team together.
The public face of Blue Ridge Recovery big and shiny didn’t fit here.
But inside, Dog was creating the absolute antithesis of the sterile, blindingly white medical facilities his brothers and sister had been trapped in for months.
Everything had to be peaceful, the perfect zen.
Downstairs consisted only of this reception area, ten administrative offices, and three consultation rooms specifically designed to look nothing like exam rooms. There would be no crinkling paper on stiff tables, no harsh fluorescent lights, no smell of rubbing alcohol.
It would feel like a sanctuary, completely unlike anything anyone else had ever done for wounded warriors.
Upstairs was a massive three-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment meant for him.
Right now, it was little more than a glorified storage unit housing a few boxes of clothes, an air mattress, and a ridiculously fancy coffee maker: a quiet testament to the old-money Boston life he’d left behind, and likely a stealthy gift orchestrated by his brother, Will.
What the town didn’t know was the true purpose of the massive, rustic lodge being built a mile up the mountain.
To the locals, it was just a private, high-end mountain retreat being constructed for a wealthy out-of-towner.
In reality, it was the actual rehabilitation and wellness center.
That was where the inpatient rooms were being painted in calming, neutral tones, and where the therapy suites were being fitted with specialized flooring.
He’d personally driven up the mountain yesterday to oversee the installation of the hydrotherapy pool at the lodge, remembering the look on Blast’s face when his doctor had told him he’d never walk without pain again. We’ll see about that, Doc.
His limp was a low thrumming ache in his left hip, a souvenir from the crash, a constant reminder of what he’d lost and why he was here.
He ran a hand over the faint, raised scar above his eyebrow, another memento.
He might have a PhD in biochemistry from Harvard University, might have grown up in a house with more silverware patterns than he could count, but none of that mattered now.
Here, he was just Dog, the medic who patched up his brothers.
And right now, his administrative front needed patching.
His office, a utilitarian rectangle just off the main hall, was chaos incarnate.
Stacks of vendor catalogs threatened to topple off his desk, competing with a half-eaten protein bar and a blueprint roll of the clinic’s plumbing layout.
Spreadsheets for medical equipment procurement for the mountain lodge wrestled with invoices for warm ambient lighting and soundscaping systems down here.
He still needed to order specialized computer networks and figure out a dozen other administrative details that made his brain ache more than his hip.
He’d hired the best doctors, nurses, therapists, and psychologists he could find, all vetted by the Brotherhood.
They were ready to start. He just needed this hub operational.
Blast, Nova, and Spider. They were coming. Dog ran through their individual files in his head, a private roll call of injuries and needs.
Blast, the team’s demolition expert, would need constant, intensive work on that shattered leg.
Hydrotherapy pool at the lodge operational, check.
Specialized weight machines for rebuilding strength, check.
But the bigger battle for Blast would be finding a new purpose, a life without the “charge,” as he’d put it.
They’d need therapists who understood that specific loss of identity for a medically retired warrior.
Nova, their expert sniper. Her arm was finally healed, but Dog knew the phantom pains were a daily battle, and the subtle shifts from her TBI were just as concerning.
Pain management specialists on standby, check.
Neuro-psychologist deeply experienced in TBI protocols, check.
Quiet, low-stimulation spaces up at the mountain retreat for when the world became too much, check.
And then there was Spider, the youngest of them all, only twenty-five.
His cognitive therapy regimen was already being drafted.
Trauma-informed care, group therapy with guys who understood what it meant to lose a career so young, all ready.
And above all, quiet. A place to decompress, to rebuild himself away from the noise.
He missed them with an ache that ran deeper than his physical injuries. Dog’s clinic had to be perfect. Every detail, every specialist, every piece of equipment: it had to be ready.
And then there was Warden. The thought of their team leader stirred a deep, heavy worry in Dog’s gut.
Warden, who had retreated so far inside himself since the crash that he barely spoke above a whisper.
Dog had tried to reach out, but the silence on the other end of the phone had become increasingly unsettling.
Each unanswered call was a reminder of Warden’s absence, a stark contrast to the camaraderie that once defined the team.
He’d refused to come, his mind still trapped in that crushed fuselage. Not yet, Dog promised himself. But when this place is humming, he’ll come. He has to.
But with each passing week of radio silence, the worry festered.
What if this time was different? What if Warden truly had gone off the grid, retreating from a world that had become too painful to face?
Dog closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on him.
“I won’t let you go,” he whispered, as if Warden could hear him, the resolve hardening within.
The clinic, this sanctuary he was building, was not just for his teammates; it was for Warden too. Because when the rest of them arrived, Dog would need his leader beside him, fighting their battles together.
Dog picked up a catalogue for oversized leather recliners and overstuffed sofas.
He needed comfortable seating for the consultation rooms here, furniture that forced a man to sink in and relax.
The heavy medical gear, the diagnostic equipment and physical therapy rigs, was reserved strictly for the lodge up the mountain.
Here, it was all about lowering blood pressure the second a guy walked through the door.
It was a mountain of minutiae. He was a medic, a scientist, a man of action.
Not an interior designer or a desk jockey.
He needed someone organized. Just as the thought crystallized, a faint jingle echoed from the reception area downstairs.
He rounded the corner, pulling his most convincing “I’m not amused” expression into place.
Years of managing highly stressed individuals had taught him the value of an impenetrable poker face.
He’d barely slept more than four hours a night for the last month, fueled by the fancy coffee machine upstairs and the driving need to get this network ready.
Standing in the middle of the nearly finished, but still stark, reception area was not a delivery guy. It was a woman.
She was clearly out of place. Her worn, yet unmistakably expensive, cashmere sweater and Italian leather boots clashed spectacularly with the scent of fresh paint and new linoleum.
She held a purse with a familiar, exorbitant logo—one Dog recognized instantly from his former life—clutched to her chest like a shield.
She looked as though she’d taken a wrong turn on the way to a very exclusive luncheon.
Her eyes, a striking shade of blue, met his. They were wide, wary, but held a spark of something desperate. And, he noted, a hint of steel.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice rougher than intended.
The woman took a deep breath, her shoulders squaring.
“Good afternoon,” she said, her voice refined, each syllable perfectly placed, like she was announcing the guest of honor at a gala.
“I am Margaret Fletcher. I understand you are seeking administrative assistance.” She held out a slender hand, an air of formal politeness radiating from her.
Dog stared at her hand for a beat too long. He hated shaking hands in the middle of a workday. It felt unnecessary. And he certainly wasn’t going to introduce himself as “Dog” to someone who looked like she regularly summered in the Hamptons.
“Dr. Berkshire,” he said, his tone clipped as he finally took her hand. Her grip was surprisingly firm, despite the delicate appearance. “And it’s a bit more than administrative assistance. This is a medical rehabilitation facility.”
Margaret withdrew her hand, her gaze sweeping around the still-sparse reception area, lingering disdainfully on a few stray tools near a freshly painted wall.
Her delicate brows furrowed almost imperceptibly.
“Yes, I gathered that,” she replied, her voice cooling slightly, each word perfectly modulated to convey polite disapproval.
“Though one might hope for a more…organized initial impression for such a significant endeavor. First impressions, particularly in a healing environment, do matter, wouldn’t you agree? ”
Dog’s lips twitched, a spark igniting in his tired eyes.
He’d sat through countless Boston dinner parties where such veiled critiques, delivered with impeccable manners, were the primary form of entertainment.
His family might have rejected that world, but he knew its language intimately.
“One might,” he conceded smoothly, a ghost of his Harvard accent appearing, making her perfectly enunciated words sound suddenly provincial.
“Unless one understood the difference between outward presentation and internal, foundational work, Miss Fletcher. Aesthetics are often best applied once the substantive challenges have been addressed. Don’t you find? ”
She seemed to pause, caught off guard by his sudden shift in register, her composure momentarily faltering.
Her lips pressed together for a moment before she recovered, her gaze flicking to the chaos of paperwork visible through his office doorway.
“However, as I understand it, even the most formidable endeavors require a meticulous organizational framework. And I was informed you are, shall we say, ‘drowning in paperwork’?”
He blinked. “And who informed you of that, Miss Fletcher?”
“A delightful woman named Mabel at the Highland Diner,” Margaret stated, her chin lifting slightly.
“She suggested I seek out the man who ‘looks like he’s running the show’ and ‘needs someone to organize the chaos.’ And, forgive me, Doctor, but your office does rather resemble a small, paper-based disaster zone. ”
Dog stared at her. His office was a disaster zone. She was entirely out of place here, like a Tiffany lamp in a hunting lodge. Yet, she had walked right in and wasn’t flinching under his gruff demeanor.
“Indeed,” he began, running a hand through his perpetually tousled hair. “Describing my current situation as ‘drowning’ is hardly inaccurate. Very well, Miss Fletcher. Might I inquire precisely what your professional expertise entails?”
Margaret managed a small, almost nervous, smile.
“Doctor, I manage. I organize. I streamline. I have an advanced degree in orchestrating the seamless execution of highly complex social engagements, and I can discern the precise caloric requirements for a working crew at a glance. Though I admit, my initial assessment regarding artisanal salads was…misinformed.”
Dog let out a short, surprised bark of a laugh—a sound increasingly rare these days.
“Salads,” he echoed with a hint of incredulity.
“Very well. Please, do come in, Miss Fletcher. You are either precisely the assistance I require or the most extraordinary occurrence of my week. Regardless, this promises to be most…intriguing.”