In addition to the survivors, the guest list included family members who had lost loved ones to the same trauma the other guests had survived. The families of the victims of that plane crash that killed all but one of the passengers. The parents of the drunken teenager who had died during the auto accident that sent the man’s burning car over the cliff. The sister of the man who did not make it out of the wilderness with his hiking partner. The truck driver whose cab had been the backstop for the sliding motorcycle. Walt returned to New York each year to see one family member in particular.

This far removed from his former occupation in the FBI, Walt owned just one suit. Formal attire was not required for his new life in Jamaica, and he had trashed every sport coat and tie he owned before he made the move years earlier. Now he pulled the lapels down tightly on his shoulders, straightened his tie, and took a deep breath before he pulled open the heavy doors of the Ascent Lounge. He made a beeline for the bar.

“What kind of rum do you have?” he asked the bartender.

The young man slid a menu across the bar. Walt ran his finger down the surprisingly large selection of rum and chose a Mount Gay 1703. The bartender poured it on the rocks and served it in a bottom-heavy tumbler, which felt perfectly balanced in his hand when Walt lifted it to his lips. His pension was not fat enough to afford Mount Gay, and ordering rum he couldn’t afford always stirred anxiety in his gut. Until he took the first sip. With drink in hand he leaned against the rail of the bar and surveyed the room. It was still early. The presentations and speeches had not yet started. He wanted a drink or two in him before he came face to face with her. As he swallowed his second sip of rum, he felt a light hand on his shoulder.

“Walt,” a woman said.

Walt knew the voice immediately. Dr. Eleanor Marshfield was the trauma surgeon who had sewn him back up. He turned with a smile.

“No surprise that I found you at the bar,” Dr. Marshfield said.

Walt offered a pained look on his face, then held up his rum. “Guilty as charged. Can I buy you one?”

“No, thank you. I’m on call.”

Walt nodded. The woman spent her life waiting for tragedies—car accidents and gunshot wounds. It was a hell of a way to live, but Walt was glad for her calling. She had saved his life.

“How have you been, Walt?”

“Good.” Walt bobbled his head up and down. “Pretty good.”

“How’s work?”

“I’m . . . not working anymore.”

Dr. Marshfield raised her eyebrows and wrinkled her forehead. “I thought that was only a temporary thing.”