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c. 1890

It's just a step away – it's just another day.

Henry was tired. His day had be quite long and frustrating – dealing with children in need of care but without the means to receive it, and adults who felt entitled to everything and assumed that he needed advice on how to best accomplish his job tended to drive him to the fringes of lunacy – and he was ready for a cup of tea and a warm bed.

He sighed, switching his black medical bag to the opposite hand and shaking the first one out, wincing. It was on days like this that he questioned his purpose, wondered why he had been given such a drastically different path in life from those around him, and despaired that he would ever truly find out and would be doomed to live all his life alone.

As he almost twisted his ankle in a pothole, he dropped his eyes to the path, walking more carefully. Glancing up for a second, he could see the lights of the city in the distance, and estimated that it was still several miles away. Sighing, he paused and looked around for a place to rest. Up ahead of him, he could see lights through the windows of a simple but neat house. Hoping that they would at least have a bench outside where he could sit for a minute, he made his way there.

He sank onto the stump with a faint groan, relieved to take the weight off his feet. The gate around the yard had been locked, but a gnarled tree stump sat right beside it. Setting his bag down beside him, he leaned back against the fence, letting himself completely relax with a sigh. He stretched, and then relaxed again, staring up at the clear night sky and tracing constellations out in the stars. Suddenly, there was a loud crash of broken glass within the house behind him, and he tensed. Turning slightly, he could hear a man shouting, complaining about life and calling for 'Liz'.

Frowning, he could hear the slur in the words, and knew the man was drunk. He could hear small feet running down the stairs inside, closely followed by another person. The shouting continued, raising in volume, and Henry could hear a girl start crying.

His hand fidgeted on the leather handle of his medical back, and he shifted uncomfortably on the stump. Abruptly, he stood up and began walking towards town, away from the house.

It was none of his business, he told himself – it was the private affairs of another person. How a father chose to treat his family was none of his business, he should just walk away and forget he heard anything.

Henry stumbled to a stop on the road, closing his eyes. And if he walked away now? What would happen then? If he walked away now, would he be called upon to certify the death of a family member there? Someone who simple 'fell down the steps' or something akin? At the very least he could knock on the door – as a traveler, he could ask for food and water; and people acted differently when a stranger was in their midst.

Retracing his steps back to the gate, he hesitated before opening it – or, rather, climbing over it. People were incredibly private – to barge into a personal matter would hardly end well for any involved... He reminded himself about all that could go wrong, all of the reasons why he should just turn and walk away – but a child screamed from within the house. Dropping his bag, he quickly climbed over the fence and went up to the door, knocking rapidly.

Silence fell within, and he wondered if he would be ignored. When he knocked again, more forcefully, the door had apparently not been fully shut, and it opened for him.

"Hello? Pardon me, but is anyone here?" Heading in the direction he heard the scream, he frowned at the shards of glass and the blood littering the hall's floor. Stepping into the parlor – if it could be called such – he quickly took in the scene that waited there. A child, barely four, huddled in the corner, crying. Hunched over her, looking at the doctor with terrified eyes, was a girl nearly thirteen – the girl who had screamed. A man was standing over them, and Henry refused to title him as 'father'.

"I apologise for intruding in this manner; but I heard someone scream, and then your door was open -"

"Who are you?" The man demanded, his attention distracted from the girls for the moment.

"I am Dr. Morgan, and -"

"What do you want? We don't have anyone sick here – we don't need your infernal pestering here!"

Henry frowned, personally disagreeing that none there were ill. "But someone screamed -"

"Was only a nightmare. Nothing for you to be worried about."

"Please, at least let me -" Henry abruptly changed tactics, knowing he would never get permission to speak with the girls alone. "May I have a cup of tea, perhaps some bread?"

The man glared at Henry, and then turned back to the girls, who hadn't moved since the doctor had come in.

"What is this? Is this your doing, Clara? Did you tell someone – go whining to somebody? Or what about you, Liz? Did you know about this?"

The elder girl spoke. "No! We didn't do anything! We don't know him!"

"You're a lying wench!" He stepped forward, and the girls shrank back away from him, still denying it.

Henry pushed his way into the situation, standing between the girls and the drunken man.

"Sir, I cannot allow this -"

He sneered. "And how you gonna stop me?"

"I ask that you back away, please. Take a walk – calm yourself."

"Doctor, Doctor – no, please. Just go. Don't try to help us, we'll be fine. Doctor, don't..." The elder girl whispered behind him, pulling on the hem of his coat.

"Clara! You telling him more? He your best friend?"

Henry shifted sideways, blocking Clara from her father's view.

The man's full venom turned on Henry. "You have no right to be here – to come into my home and tell me how to raise my kin. She's my daughter, left me by her worthless mother – who gave you power to tell me how to live my life?"

Henry fought the urge to back away from the man, to apologise and leave the scene. He had gotten involved now – there was no backing out. He tried to calm the man down again, to at least get him to back away; but the man interrupted him.

"You have no right to be here – you're trespassing and butting in where you aren't wanted. Perhaps be a little more prepared when rescuing the damsels in distress though."

Henry fell to the ground, his head ringing from the blow upside his head that the man had dealt him. Choking, he weakly raised his hands to his throat, feeling the heavy shard of glass embedded in it from when he fell.

He could faintly hear shouting, and Clara's voice raised up to match her father's. Remembering what had caused him to be in this situation, He shakily lifted himself up from the floor, stumbling back over to stand between the man and the girls. Clara was standing now, holding Liz behind her and steadily inching towards the parlor door as the man kept cutting them off. The screams of the girls as they saw the blood echoed in his head and he winced.

"You...I...You – you weren't supposed to be hurt!" Sobered by the sight before him, the sight of what could happen in his drunkenness, all of the blood drained from the man's face. He took a step towards Henry, in shock; but the doctor flinched away from him and the man stilled. Sucking in ragged breaths, and clenching trembling fists, he abruptly left the room – fleeing the evidence of what he had done.

Henry stared ahead at the place the man had been. Clara told her sister to wait in the corner of the room, to keep her eyes and ears closed; and came over to him.

"Doctor? Dr. Morgan?" Her hand hovered hesitantly over his arm as she tried to get his attention.

Sluggishly, he turned to look at her, suddenly crumpling to the ground in a pile of loose limbs and bloody clothes. She gasped and tried to catch him, only succeeding in keeping his head from bouncing on the floor.

She knelt beside him, wringing her hands in helplessness. "Oh, Doctor – you shouldn't have done that. You should have gone home."

He whispered something, and she leaned down to hear him.

"Please...Put my hands...on the...glass."

She nodded, and immediately did so, wincing when he jerked away from the extra weight on his throat before controlling his hands and lifting them a little.

"Clara...Thank...Don't...watch..." Closing his own eyes, he mustered his energy and pushed the glass through his throat into his brain stem – falling into blackness.

Henry sighed, watching the sun rise over the park. No one had been at the strait when he reappeared the night before, so retrieving some clothes and returning to his home had been easier than it could have been. He couldn't stop thinking of the night before, of the family he had met on the road. Where they alright? What could he do now? They saw him die – but he couldn't leave the girls in that situation... His thoughts went in circles – but always came back to the point that he had to check on them again. At the very least, he could use it as an excuse to retrieve his medical bag, which he had fortunately dropped outside the gate.

He stood up and buttoned his coat, steeling himself for the journey – or at least for what waited on the other end.

He stood outside the gate, searching the ground – again – for his bag. He knew he had dropped it beside the stump, right before climbing over the fence and going inside. Giving up, he opened the gate, picking his way through the yard up to the door. He lifted his hand to knock; but paused, all of the fears of what might happen, or what he might find running through his head again, almost drowning out the whispering voice ordering him to knock. Suddenly, he knocked on the door, drawing back in surprise as it easily swung open. Ignoring the flashbacks seeking to steal his attention, he stepped into the house.

It was silent. Empty. If he listened, it seemed as if he could hear the wind whistling through the corridors and empty rooms. Walking down the hall, he saw that glass still covered the floor, but there was an abandoned air about the house – as if all was dead and ancient inside. Letting his wandering steps lead him through the house, he found himself in the parlor, the scene of all of the drama the night before.

It was empty, as all of the rest of the rooms, and – as per usual – there was no sign of his presence and death the night before. Well, no sigh other than the black medical bag that was resting where he had fallen and died. When he stepped forward and picked it up, checking that all of his instruments and supplies were still within, an envelope sat atop of contents of his bag, addressed to himself. With shaking hands, he pulled it out and began reading it.

Dear Dr. Morgan,

We know that you're an angel – that you'll be back soon for your bag. Liz found it and brought it to me; don't fret. It's all exactly as it was.

We, Liz and I, wanted to thank you. Many others have simply passed by – if they even took the time to listen. You're the first to look in on us, and actually look at what's happening instead of accepting the excuses and leaving. That's how we know God sent you – you are an answer to prayer.

Papa hasn't drunk again; he's taking us to the train station this morning. You did something to him last night, and he hasn't been the same. I think that he's convinced it was a dream though – but it still made a difference. We're going to live with our Grandmother now, and she lives in Vermont. Papa says that he's going to get work, probably go work on the railroads or something. He doesn't say that we'll meet again, and I'm not sure I want to. I'm sorry, I know that's wrong – but I can't help it.

I have a question of my own though: if you're an angel, why did you get hurt? Why didn't you just change Papa with a word, or a touch, like Jesus always did in the Bible? Liz says you disappeared – she didn't close her eyes, I'm sorry. I know that you weren't there when I looked again, and that all the blood was gone. I'd have thought I was crazy, except Liz saw it too – and neither of us were hurt.

Thank you again, Angel. I know you're busy, saving other lives and helping other people; so I won't bother you too long. We just wanted to thank you, and thank God for sending you. And, if you're not too busy, maybe you could tell our mother we miss her and love her?

The letter was unsigned, misspelled, and blotted with ink; but Henry knew Clara had written it. He smiled, letting out a breath he hadn't known he had been holding, and blinking away the tears.

It was on days like this that he rejoiced in his condition, marveled that he could make a difference in even one life, and sighed in relief that there was still hope and life in even the darker parts of the world. The days that he felt like this were few, and often lost amidst the loneliness and fear; but they still shone brilliantly.

Still smiling, and moving with a fresh spring in his step and new energy, he sighed in relief that he would not come to this house one day to find the children dead or worse. Carefully refolding the letter and replacing it in the envelope, he slipped it into a side pocket within his bag. Making his way out of the house and shutting the door behind him, he returned to the city, ready to face life again.

It's just another war; just another family torn. Just a step from the edge – just another day in the world we live.

Who's gonna fight for what's right? Who's gonna help us survive? We're in the fight of our lives, and we're not ready to die.

I'm gonna fight for what's right – today, I'm speaking my mind; and if it kills me tonight, I will be ready to die...

A hero's not afraid to give his life – a hero's gonna save me just in time.

AN: Thank you so much for taking the time to read this! Gramercy, and God bless!