Maybe that makes the difference. Family, friends. When his mother died Chase had flown back from England, with no friends on either side of the globe solid enough to risk leaning on. His father had sent a card, money, a referral letter. He took the second two and used them to build his own support, alone. When his father died Chase drank something bitter and kept it quiet. Solitude less of a choice than an expectation, a habit formed.

Expectation also changes things from someone ripped away in their prime. Wilson's patients, their families, talk about the relief of the end coming. Chase doesn't operate like that. Giving up is impossible, faith implausible. Medicine has been his last resort.

His mouth twitches at the corners, the beginnings of a tremble or a grimace, and he shakes his head, shakes off whatever is coming. "Sorry, not much of a holiday conversation."