Sleepy Fox Hollow potage.

Her apology is just as scalpel-sharp and antiseptic as the rest of her. He slumps as she withdraws, sinking back into his shoulders. His heart beats out a rapid fire rhythm; he places a hand over his chest, discreet, and wills it to slow down.

"I do." He says, hollow. Then, making an effort to chain together a semblance of coherency: "You're a doctor. We could use a doctor." Who, Colin? Pull yourself together. Who could use a doctor? "We, as in the Saints. Have you heard of them? Or of Donovan?"

If Donovan had been as relentless of an entrepeneur here as he was back in the forest they had been driven out from, Colin had no doubt that word had spread. He was a monster in a business suit, really, complete with a business card in the inside pocket and a giant clawed hand tightening the Windsor knot of his tie. 

He would be lying if he said that he didn't feel a little out of place-- a pastor alongside a group of scarred soldiers, but he would also be lying if he said he wasn't thankful for it.