At 5:58 the cafeteria was almost empty, which was why Lily Hartman had the whole window seat to herself.

Three days later, Elijah Vance sat in a clean, private room at the St. Jude Veterans Recovery Center—a specialized medical facility on the outskirts of the city.

Daniel had personally funded Elijah's admission, securing the top trauma psychiatrists and physical therapists in the state. Elijah had showered, his wild beard trimmed into a neat, silver goatee, wearing clean clothes for the first time in a decade.

Dr. Sarah Lin, a renowned military trauma psychologist, walked into the courtyard where Elijah sat on a wooden bench, staring at a bed of winter roses.

"He comes every day, you know," Dr. Lin said softly, sitting beside him.

"Who?" Elijah asked, his voice low.

"Daniel," she smiled. "He sits in the lobby for two hours every afternoon while you're in therapy. He doesn't disturb you. He just wants to make sure you have everything you need."

Elijah looked down at his hands—hands that were clean now, the dirt scrubbed from the deep lines of his skin. "I don't belong in a place like this, Doc. I belong on the streets. It's where I deserve to be."

"Because you think living in comfort is a betrayal of your daughter's memory?" Dr. Lin asked gently.

Elijah didn't answer, which was an answer in itself.

"Elijah," Dr. Lin said, leaning forward. "When you walked into that hospital room three weeks ago, you didn't see a rich man's child. You saw a human life slipping away, and you used every ounce of your training to pull her back from the dark. That wasn't luck. That was purpose."

"I failed my own family," Elijah whispered, a tear tracing a path down his cheek. "What good is a medic who can't protect his own house?"

"You couldn't stop the fire, Elijah," Dr. Lin said firmly. "But you can stop burning yourself."

At that moment, the courtyard doors opened. Daniel stepped out into the crisp air, holding the hand of a small six-year-old girl wearing a bright yellow raincoat and carrying a drawing in her tiny fist.