It had taken years to build and equip Fred’s clinic. She supposed the mess looked worse than it was. This sort of destruction so often did. Still, it was daunting to see how little a life’s work could be boiled down to—and how quickly. "Hey, Casie! You going to give us a hand?" She turned around at the sound of Fred’s voice. He was facing away from her, directing the cleanup, and there was something very reminiscent of I told you so about the set of his back. But perhaps that was merely whimsy on her part. Or guilt. "Put anything that looks remotely salvageable in the box in the corner," he ordered. "I’ll make a list for repairs later." He shook his head at the increasing flow of trash, watching Cameron use a splintered floorboard to scrape shredded paintings and glass into a pile. "Damn." "Yeah." Fred’s autoclave rolled by, its door twisted on its hinges, and Cameron’s jaw tightened. "You going to have trouble replacing anything?" "Not with your name on the order form." Cameron gave him a sharp nod.
