[I]A bit over an hour later…[/I]

A rapping came at the door, followed by Sam’s voice calling through the hardwood portal. “Vera, it’s me. Open up.” 

When Vera opened the door, Sam, along with Emory and Silas, came in, followed by a strange middle aged woman in a long dress of multicoloured fabric. Silas looked red in the face, like he’d run a half mile to answer a summons. For a situation like this, Sam likely called up whoever was readily available and made their way over. Shay was on the couch, legs stretched across the fabric without a shirt, his bandages still slightly crimson from the wound. Vera had steeped them both cups of earl grey tea, which was still too hot to drink and sat seaming on the end table, moved beside Shay so he didn’t have to try and reach behind himself to reach it.

“Evening, lads. Sorry to be a bother.” He said, unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Jesus, Shay. You’re lucky to be alive.” Sam said, kicking off his boots and rushing over. Silas and Emory lingered by the door, pulling guns from their coats. Interestingly, Emory had a post-war Luger in his possession, a prized handgun that he claimed fit his hand like no other. Unlike Shay and Sam, who had less than ideal memories of the Jerries and their weapons of war, Emory had no qualms about German small arms, preferring the sleek 9mm over the larger and bulkier service revolvers the two veterans favoured. Sam knelt before Shay, lighting his cigarette for him. “I brought a doctor for you. She’s… unconventional, but she’ll do a damn fine job. Vera? A word, please.” He said, not unkindly. Given what his sister had endured, and the unfortunate circumstances of the night, he was more concerned about her than angry. 

Meanwhile, Shay regarded the “doctor” with some degree of skepticism. “Begging my pardon, lass, but you don’t look like a doctor.” He stated, blinking through the wafting smoke.