For the next two weeks, he didn't bring up anything personal again.
Whatever the medical center needed, he found a way to get it. Antibiotics stuck at the port? He negotiated customs clearance. Diesel couldn't get through? He contacted local suppliers. A shipment of blood bags was delayed due to a cold‑chain breakdown, so he spent the night at the airport warehouse and delivered the boxes to the hospital himself the next morning.
People started recognizing him.
"Is that the guy hauling boxes? The Moretti from Yorkshore?"
"Which Moretti?"
"The one from the news."
I pretended not to hear.
He never once pulled rank. Not even a hint.
One night, after a twelve‑hour surgery, I walked out and saw Damian sitting on the steps, eating cold flatbread.
I stopped.
He looked up. "Something wro
