Chapter Text
Peter Benton didn’t remember leaving Allegheny General.
He vaguely recalled saying something about a headache, ducking out of the hospital tour and into the parking lot like he was trying to escape a fire. His hands were shaking. His chest ached. He hadn’t felt like this since his early days at County, when adrenaline and grief were indistinguishable.
It wasn’t a mistake. He knew what he saw.
John Carter—Dr. John Truman Carter III—was alive.
He pulled out his phone as he sat in the rental car, locked the doors, and stared at the screen. It took him three tries to type Doug’s number. His vision blurred with a mix of shock and memory.
Doug answered on the third ring, voice groggy and annoyed.
“Benton? What time is it?”
“It’s Carter.”
There was a long silence.
“…What?”
“I found him. I found Carter.”
Doug didn’t respond.
Benton pressed harder. “I’m in Pittsburgh. We got rerouted to Allegheny General. He’s here. He’s going by a different name—Robby Robinavitch. He’s the Chief Attending in the ER. He’s older. Beard. Hearing aids. I—Doug, it’s him.”
“Wait,” Doug said, voice cracking, suddenly awake. “Carter’s dead. Dead. Luka said he died in Africa. The consulate confirmed it.”
“No.” Benton gripped the steering wheel. “He’s alive. I saw him. He doesn’t know who he is. He’s—he’s got a TBI. They said he was hurt in Africa. PTSD, memory loss, chronic pain. It’s bad. But it’s him. Same height. Same build. Same voice. His hands, his trauma response—Doug, it’s Carter.”
Doug let out a long, ragged breath.
“Holy shit,” he whispered. “Does he remember anything?”
“No. Not a thing. They said he doesn’t talk about the past. Doesn’t remember it. Just that he was in Africa with Doctors Without Borders. He was captured. Tortured. Something happened. Dana Evans and a guy named Jack Abbot are the only people who know anything about what came before.”
“Dana…?” Doug echoed. “Is she a doctor?”
“No. She’s the charge nurse. But she’s more than that. She looks out for him like a mother. She’s the only one he listens to when he’s having a bad day. I saw him perform an open thoracotomy in the trauma bay like it was a morning routine. He hasn’t lost a step. He’s a machine.”
Doug was quiet again. Then, “Peter…we thought he was gone.”
“I know.”
“You’re sure?”
Benton’s voice cracked. “I would bet my life on it.”
Back inside the hospital, the ER was finally calming down.
The patient from earlier was stabilized—barely. He was in the ICU, lungs reinflated and chest cavity closed. Langdon had looked a little green after the thoracotomy, and Mel King had gone to cry quietly in the stairwell.
Robby was on hour thirteen of his shift. He had skipped lunch, as always. He was standing outside exam room 7, rolling his shoulder with a wince, pain medicine still in his pocket. His hearing aids were buzzing—one was almost dead. He could feel the familiar throb in his jaw, a sharp nerve pain behind his cheekbone, radiating down into his teeth.
Dana noticed him leaning slightly against the wall.
“You didn’t take your meds,” she said, approaching slowly. Her tone was warm, but not soft. “I counted. Don’t argue with me.”
“I was busy,” Robby said, half a mumble. His voice always dropped when the pain kicked in.
Dana sighed. “Give me the bottle.”
He handed her the amber vial, and she popped the lid with the ease of long practice.
“Water,” she demanded.
He obediently reached for a staff fridge bottle. She handed him two of the meds and waited until he swallowed.
Dana was quiet for a moment. Watching him.
“You’re getting worse again,” she said, not unkindly. “You need to sleep, Robby.”
“I’ll sleep when the ED stops imploding.”
“Smartass.”
He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was exhausted. She knew the signs. His shoulders were stiff, his pupils dilated from pain, and his left leg trembled occasionally when he stood too long. She noticed everything.
Dana was about to push him harder when someone cleared their throat.
She turned.
Peter Benton.
He had come back.
She stared at him for a moment, suspicious.
“You're one of the doctors from the tour,” she said.
“Yeah. I need to talk to you. Privately.”
She looked at Robby. He was already walking away, distracted, muttering something about updating charts and “finding Langdon before he glues someone’s hand shut again.”
Once he was out of earshot, Dana crossed her arms.
“You want to tell me why you’re looking at him like he’s a ghost?”
“Because he is,” Benton said.
Dana’s expression darkened. “Be very careful with what you say next.”
“I think you know,” Benton said gently. “You know he wasn’t always ‘Robby.’ You know something happened.”
Dana’s jaw clenched. “I don’t owe you anything.”
“You don’t,” Benton agreed. “But I’m not here to hurt him. I’m not here to force him to remember. I just—Dana, I knew him. His name was John Carter. He was a doctor at County General in Chicago. We worked together. He was my student. Then he was my equal. He went to Africa with Doctors Without Borders. And then he disappeared.”
Dana’s shoulders dropped slightly. The fire in her eyes dimmed. “They said he was dead.”
“We thought so.”
She leaned against the wall now. “He was brought here barely alive. Burned. Starved. His back was a roadmap of scars. They said he’d been missing for weeks in a conflict zone. He didn’t speak for days. When he did…he couldn’t remember his own name. He called himself ‘Robby.’ Said he liked the name. It stuck.”
“And the PTSD?”
“Severe. Some days are good. Some days…” Dana sighed. “He has night terrors. Can’t handle loud bangs or crowded rooms. He gets stuck in the past—has flashbacks. His body’s a mess. Trigeminal neuralgia, spinal damage, chronic migraines. He has a regimen of meds longer than a grocery list. Jack—Jack Abbot—he’s the only one who can touch him during those episodes. Served in the Army. They understand each other.”
Benton swallowed thickly. “He’s alive.”
“Yes,” Dana said. “But barely. You need to understand something—he’s not who he was. And he doesn’t want to be. He made that clear from the start.”
“I’m not trying to change him.”
“You’re going to make him question everything,” Dana warned. “He’s stable now. Mostly. But if he finds out who he was, what he lost… it’ll break him. Again.”
Benton looked down, heart heavy. “I just want him to know he wasn’t alone. That we never forgot him.”
Dana paused, then nodded slowly. “I’ll think about it. But you don’t tell anyone else. Especially not him. Not yet.”
“I understand.”
As Benton turned to leave, Dana called after him.
“He still likes Ethiopian coffee. Black, no sugar. Same as back then?”
Benton smiled faintly. “Exactly the same.”
She sighed. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
Back in the ED, Robby stood over a patient, his hands steady as he reduced a dislocated shoulder. Langdon was watching, trying to mimic the angle.
“Gentle. Controlled force,” Robby said. “Don’t yank.”
Langdon nodded. “I got it, boss.”
As the joint popped back in, the patient yelped, and Robby stepped back.
“You okay?” Robby asked.
“I think so,” the teen muttered.
“Good. Ice, immobilizer, ortho follow-up. Dana’ll handle discharge. Langdon, chart it.”
Langdon moved toward the computer, but glanced at Robby.
“You ever think about the past, boss?” he asked.
Robby blinked. “What?”
“Just…you ever wonder who you were before Africa?”
Robby stiffened.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said flatly. “I’m Robby. That’s all I need.”
Langdon nodded, but quietly said, “Some of us think you were someone important.”
“I’m important now.”
Robby walked away.
From the hallway, Dana watched him go. Her expression unreadable. And from a distance, Peter Benton stood near the exit, phone pressed to his ear.
“…Doug? Yeah. He’s still in there. Same scrubs. Same walk. He’s here.”
And outside, the Pittsburgh rain began to fall.