“You’re the new doctor,” Robby mutters. “Good luck.”

That was all he said to you this morning. Great. He’s not in the mood for this kind of crap and neither are you.

So now you’re here. Jack Abbott. They warned you: don’t expect warmth. Don’t expect diplomacy. Don’t expect patience.

“Close the door if you’re coming in.”

He’s bent over an improvised stretcher, inspecting a patient’s lungs with a flashlight and a look that screams: this isn’t science, it’s survival.

“So you’re the new gift Ashur sent us,” he finally says, glancing at you over his shoulder. His gaze is hard, surgical. He’s not trying to get to know you. He’s looking for weaknesses.