Todd shakes me awake, not that I've been sleeping long. Shallow sleep or no sleep have been dogging me for months. Exhaustion is my constant companion. Light is just creeping across the horizon through the flap of the tent. Guilt settles across my chest as I snatch up my pre-packed backpack and duck out the door.

We shouldn't be doing this. Like so many things I've seen over the years, this is just another god damned fucking tragedy.

My jaw tightens as I trail Todd toward the waiting vehicles. All the other doctors, nurses, and logistical coordinators are filing out of the makeshift buildings and into waiting cars. There are armed men with machine guns flanking the vehicles and in open top jeeps around the provisional hospital.

"Todd," I say, keeping my voice low. "A skeleton crew was supposed to stay. We can't completely abandon them."

"They shot at us again yesterday. It's against international law, but no one in the Democratic Republic of the Congo seems to give a shit," he says over his shoulder, and then he stands and waits for me to slide into the vehicle first, as though he knows I'll protest and try to stay. "Doctors International is withdrawing everyone from this part of DRC."

"For how long?" I should get into the vehicle. An evacuation like this always needs to be fast and clean, but I can't make myself get in. Locals are starting to mill around the edges of the camp with the breaking of dawn. We didn't tell anyone we were leaving even though we found out yesterday.

What a fucking mess.

"Get in," Todd says, impatience clear in his voice. "This isn't the first time you've done an evac. Get in the fucking car before you start putting people at risk."

The armed guards shift restlessly around the convoy of extraction vehicles. We need to get moving before we draw too much of the wrong kind of attention, so I do as I'm told, even though it's the last thing I want to do.

"For how long?" I ask again once we're both in the vehicle. Others are cramming in around us. "I want to be reassigned."

"You know it doesn't work like that, Blake."

The locals have figured out we're leaving. Some of them are hanging off the arms of the doctors and nurses who haven't managed to get into an SUV. As long as we're here, this area is relatively safe, at least by their standards, even if it's unsafe by ours.

"God, I hate this," I mutter as I shift to stare out the window, the one that shows the confusion of the locals rather than their desperation. My black hair, which has gotten too long, shifts around my cheeks and along my jawline. I brush it back impatiently.

"None of us like it," Todd says. "But the mission is to save lives without putting our own at undue risk. You were in the vehicle that was shot at last week. You helped treat Brenda and Brian who were injured. Two weeks ago, they kidnapped Smith. Granted, they took him for a joyride and held him overnight before returning him, but they're getting bold. It's escalating. We never take a withdrawal lightly."

The vehicle is packed, and it lurches forward behind the rest of the convoy. Some of the locals jog beside us, pleading with us to stay, asking what's happening to their medical treatments. I feel like the scum of the earth. While the organization does its best to leave behind medical care and to ensure there's still a medical funnel for those who need particular medicines to survive, there will be no one to monitor or administer anything. They'll be on their own with limited supplies and understanding.

"Don't dwell on it," Todd says.

The one thing I'm sure of is that we're both dwelling on what our evacuation means. We protect ourselves, but we leave behind enormous gaps in medical care and safety. Everyone who migrated close to us for protection are now ripe for the picking by any number of the armed gangs that circulate. A swell of cruelty will arise in our absence.

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. They'll force me out to HR in Vancouver, Canada where they'll either let me come back to the DRC or assign me somewhere else. With very few exceptions, that's been the pattern.

The ride to the airport is fast over bumpy terrain, and the convoy never stops if it can be avoided. Any slow downs can lead to a potential ambush or for another rogue group to consider firing a few shots at us. For some of these groups, inspiring terror is the only point.

The whole time, I can't keep my mind off the defenseless people we left behind. While I understand the rules Doctors International has in place, and I'm well versed in the consequences if they aren't followed, but I can't help the pangs that periodically strike my chest. None of us takes a job like this thinking we'll leave people worse off. But that's what it feels like right now. That any good we did is undone by our leaving.

~ * ~

I wake up disoriented in a hotel room in Vancouver. My backpack is on the floor beside me, still packed. I was so exhausted when I got here that I collapsed on the bed fully clothed.

In two hours, I'm supposed to report to the head office to meet with HR about my options. On the way here, I scrolled through the places where Doctors International is currently stationed, but I've decided that I'll head to the north of the DRC. They're still seeking people there, and it must be slightly safer north if we aren't pulling out there too. The good thing about being a doctor is that I can literally go anywhere within the organization. There are no closed doors.

The only door I have no interest in walking back through is at my parents' place in St. Anthony in Newfoundland. Thankfully, that's on the other coast, and the house I own next to my parents is rented for the next five years by an old friend from high school. Since all my siblings remained local, I can claim to be too busy to make an appearance, even if they realize I've been evacuated.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I roll over to grab it. Squinting at the display, I release a deep sigh.

"Blake Robinson," I say by way of hello.

"You have call display, Blake. You can answer the phone like a normal person," my youngest sister, Angela, says.

"Didn't check it."

"Whatever. I heard on the news that Doctors International pulled out of the southern DRC yesterday. Just wanted to make sure you're still alive."

"I am."

There's a long pause across the phone line, and I'm not sure what Ang is debating, but I'm not pressing for details. She's the only one who ever tries to chase me. The rest of them let me go a long time ago.

"You can hate them and still talk to us," she says. "We all grew up in that house."

"Ang," I say. "I'm going back on assignment. Maybe next time."

We both know I'm lying. It's been 'next time' for years.

"In six months, I'm getting married. I want you there. You don't have to talk to any of the rest of them, but I want you there for me. I want you to walk me down the aisle."

"You tell Dad that yet?" I run my hand down my face.

"If you say you'll be there, I will."

I stare at the white ceiling above me, and I already know what my answer is, but I'm trying to find the words so she doesn't hate me. A flat out no won't make her happy.

"I'm not sure where I'll be located. Tomorrow I'll be given a new assignment, and if I can make it work, I will." At least then it sounds like I'll try. The new assignment should come today, but that gives me a buffer to work on my excuse.

"I swear to god, Blake, if you lie to me about this, I'm not calling you anymore. Maybe that doesn't bother you, but it would break my fucking heart."

"You know when I'm on assignment I can't just fly out whenever I want." That part is true, but it's also possible to get special allowances; I hate asking.

"At some point, you've gotta let the past go. All of it." She says the last part with added emphasis, and I hope she's not alluding to what I suspect. "Dwelling on what can't be changed doesn't lead to happiness."

"I'll call you tomorrow," I say. "I'll do my best, and I'll call you tomorrow."

She lets me hang up without another lecture, and I haul myself to the edge of the bed. Although I had a deep and dreamless sleep last night, I still feel exhausted. Bone weary. I place my hands on my knees and I force myself into a standing position.

Sitting around here isn't going to do me any good. I can grab whatever I need from the stores so when I talk to HR, I'm ready to leave on a plane back as soon as possible.

~ * ~

When I get to the HR building later, I'm ushered into a seat outside Jane's door, and that's when I realize things aren't going to go as I expected. Jane is the Head of HR, and she only sees employees who are in trouble or whose mental health is in question. None of us are perfect in the field, but I've never fucked up badly enough to warrant this treatment, which means someone ratted on my poor sleep habits and nightmares, which restarted after the shooting the other week.

Fucking fantastic.

"Blake," she says after opening her door. "Come on in and have a seat."

I slide into the chair across from her desk, and Jane's long brown hair is pulled into a bun. She looks like she's in her early forties, maybe a few years older than me.

"How'd you sleep?" she asks, and she clicks through some things on her computer before meeting my gaze.

"Fine," I say, but inside I know I'm sunk. Sleep isn't a casual pleasantry when you're dragged into HR. Decent sleep is vital to good decision making, and even though I know this, I haven't reported how little I've been getting. "I'm packed and ready to go back. Northern DRC."

She gives me a tight smile. "I have some reports here from your colleagues about you having trouble sleeping."

"Light sleeper. Noisy camp." The excuse all of us rely on when it gets too much.

"Being a light sleeper isn't noted on any other exit interviews except the one following the bomb." She gives me a meaningful look.

That's also the last time they required me to take time off, recharge my batteries, seek professional help. Whatever version made me feel better about being forced into a vacation.

"Just tell me what you're recommending, Jane."

"Six months leave. Seventy-five percent pay. Access to mental health services here or in St. Anthony."

"I'm just not sleeping," I say. "Six months seems excessive."

"You were shot at, and you treated victims, fellow staff members. Friends." Her index finger touches above her right eye which is where my scar resides. "Perhaps some old memories resurfaced."

"I went to a professional, and I was cleared to return. As requested." Not that I hadn't needed it, but I don't know if I would have gone if Doctors International hadn't insisted.

"The timeframe is non-negotiable. Whether you lie around recharging or you go speak to someone is at your discretion this time."

"And then I can come back?"

"You can," Jane agrees, and she searches my face when I stand. She stands with me. "Blake, you're a valued member of Doctors International, but you've been with us since you finished your residency program. Have you thought about putting down roots somewhere?"

"I'm fine. Do you suggest this to all your dedicated doctors? Could be why you've often got a shortage."

"Not all of them. Just the ones not sleeping. From my experience, that usually suggests something unsettled in the mind."

"Your professional diagnosis?"

She flushes at my tone. "I was planting a seed. By no means do you need to water it."

"I'll be back in your office in six months, ready to continue." I leave before she can say any more, and I head back to my hotel room.

I guess I'll have to call Ang and tell her I can walk her down the aisle after all. Then, maybe I'll take the world's slowest journey across the country, to land there just in time. Duty done, I'll come back to Vancouver to keep the promise I made a long time ago.

If you're looking for something to tide you over until next week and you haven't read Miss Matched, I'd love the help in tipping that story over a million reads. I'm soooo close. Or When Stars Fall is in the paid stories program OR Fake Crown/Scarred Crown are available in Kindle Unlimited.

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