Wondercraft narrates this Episode. Please provide feedback via the comments.
Savannah Regional Medical Center, Earlier That Day
Lane McDonald's fingers traced the silver pendant at her neck - an ancient Highlands medical symbol passed down through generations of McDonald healers - as she reviewed patient charts at the nurse's station. The afternoon shift hummed with the usual controlled chaos of the medical center, but something felt off. Maybe it was the new surveillance cameras installed last week, their tiny red lights blinking like mechanical eyes, or the way Administrative Director Phillips had passed her over for the third promotion this year, despite her spotless record and advanced certifications.
Her lips tightened as she remembered Phillips' weak excuse: "We're looking for someone who better fits our leadership culture." The same story, different words. At least her patients appreciated her skills, especially the elderly ones who said her hands carried the same healing warmth as the old Highland healers. "Touch is memory," her grandfather Xander used to say, "and our blood remembers."
The vibration against her hip made her freeze. Not her iPhone - the other one. The ancient flip phone her father insisted she carry lay heavy in her scrubs pocket, its buzz like a warning drum. Only family had this number, and they only used it for emergencies.
With careful movements that wouldn't draw attention from the cameras, Lane slipped into the medication room, counting narcotics as cover while she checked the message:
Session: Highland Shepherd to Bobcat: "Remember the hurricane protocol. Time to circle back."
Her heart stuttered. She'd just left River Retreat yesterday, helping her mother with inventory. The hurricane protocol wasn't just any emergency - it was their family's code for "everything's about to change." The last time they'd used it...
"Double checking the counts?" Judy Brown's voice cut through her thoughts. The older administrator stood in the doorway, her face a careful mask that didn't quite hide the concern in her eyes. Though they often clashed on hospital politics, Judy had been the only one to speak up during the promotion discussions.
"Actually," Lane said, her mind racing through cover stories while keeping her voice steady, "I just got a message. My mother's blood pressure..." She let the words trail off, knowing Judy would catch the meaning. Better to give a partial truth than a whole lie - another of her father's rules.
Judy's eyes darted to the corner camera, then back to Lane. Her voice dropped. "Go. I'll clear it with HR." She hesitated, then added even more quietly, "The new facial recognition system isn't fully online yet. Next week..." She left the warning unspoken.
"Thanks, Judy." Lane gathered her things, maintaining the careful calm she'd learned in trauma scenarios. Inside, her mind was already mapping routes home, calculating risks, remembering her father's endless drills.
As she headed to the locker room, she heard Erin Johnson's voice carrying from the break room: "Of course Lane gets to leave early. Again." The bitterness in those words confirmed what Lane had long suspected - the division in their ranks wasn't just about race or politics anymore. Something deeper was fracturing their world, and today's message suggested she was about to find out what.
The Preparation
Lane moved through the locker room with practiced efficiency, her movements deliberate but unhurried. The cameras here were newer, their coverage more complete. She kept her face neutral as she opened her locker, though her fingers trembled slightly against the combination lock.
Her go-bag sat exactly where it belonged - another of Dad's non-negotiable rules. "A McDonald always has an escape route," he'd drill into them, his accent thickening as it did whenever he spoke of family matters. Inside the bag, everything was arranged just as they'd practiced: paper maps sealed in waterproof bags, the emergency radio disguised as a vintage Walkman, basic medical supplies that wouldn't flag any systems, and at the bottom, wrapped in a white hospital towel, her grandfather's old medical journal - the one with the hand-drawn maps of the mountain paths only their family knew.
As she changed out of her scrubs, Lane's mind drifted to last month's "equipment upgrade" meeting. Phillips had been so proud of the new AI-driven patient monitoring system. "It'll revolutionize healthcare," he'd promised. But all Lane could see were more chains, more ways to track and control. Just like the promotion that should have been hers.
A soft whine drew her attention to the staff entrance. Wahya sat alertly by the door, his Belgian Malinois frame tense with anticipation. He'd been a gift from her father last year - "for protection," he'd said, though Lane now wondered if he'd known this day was coming. The dog's training went far beyond basic security work; he could detect electronics, identify surveillance, and move as silently as a Highland mist.
"Ready, boy?" she whispered, clipping his lead. Wahya's ears twitched forward - their signal for all-clear.
The walk to her Jeep required passing six security cameras and two guard stations. Lane kept her stride casual, nodding to familiar faces. Years of trauma response had taught her that panic draws attention. Besides, her grandfather's voice whispered in her memory: "The McDonald healers survived centuries of persecution by hiding in plain sight. The art is in being forgettable."
At her vehicle, Lane performed what looked like a routine check but was actually a sweep for tracking devices. Wahya circled the Jeep, his behavior appearing playful to any observers while he conducted his own check. Only after he gave the subtle "clean" signal did Lane load her bag.
Before starting the engine, she sent a final text from her iPhone, maintaining appearances: "Family emergency - taking a few personal days." Then she removed the battery and SIM card, storing them separately as practiced. The old flip phone stayed on - their secure line home.
"Time to disappear, boy," she murmured to Wahya as they pulled out of the parking lot. The sun was still high, giving them a few hours of daylight for the first leg of their journey. They'd need it. The route home would be anything but direct.
As they passed the hospital's main gate, Lane caught a glimpse of Judy watching from her office window. The older woman's face was drawn with an emotion Lane couldn't quite read - concern, certainly, but something else too. Knowledge, perhaps. Or warning.
The last thing Lane saw in her rearview mirror was Erin Johnson hurrying into Phillips' office, tablet in hand. Whatever storm was coming, the first drops were already falling.
The Road Between
The familiar highways around Savannah fell away as Lane guided her Jeep onto less traveled paths. Each turn followed a carefully memorized sequence - third right past the old Miller farm, left at the lightning-struck oak, two miles past the abandoned gas station with its faded Coca-Cola sign. Her father had drilled these routes into them under the guise of family camping trips. "Every McDonald needs to know the hidden paths," he'd say, though only now did the urgency behind those lessons become clear.
Wahya sat alert in the passenger seat, his training evident in how he divided his attention between the road ahead and their surroundings. Every few minutes, his ears would shift, cataloging sounds that human ears couldn't catch. Twice he gave his subtle warning signal - head tilted left, right paw slightly raised - and Lane diverted to alternate routes without questioning his instincts.
The old flip phone buzzed again: "Shepherd: Take the high road past MacPherson's." Lane smiled grimly at the coded message. The "high road" meant the old logging trails that wound through the mountains - paths that hadn't appeared on any digital map since the 1950s.
Three hours into their journey, they passed a convoy of unmarked white vans heading toward Savannah. Through her windshield, Lane caught the glint of sophisticated equipment mounted on their roofs. Wahya's low growl confirmed her suspicions - surveillance vehicles, probably part of the new "public safety" initiative she'd heard Phillips bragging about.
At a decrepit-looking country store - one of their family's pre-arranged stops - Lane pulled in for fuel. The elderly owner, Mr. Johnston, had known her grandfather. As she paid for the gas with cash, he slipped her a folded paper along with her change.
"Your father said you might be passing through," he murmured, his own Highland ancestry evident in the slight lilt of his words. "There's been unusual traffic on the main roads. Best stick to the old ways."
The paper contained a list of checkpoints to avoid, written in the old family cipher her grandfather had insisted they all learn. Another piece of "paranoid" preparation that had suddenly become vital.
As the sun began to set, Lane switched off her headlights, navigating by the deep purple twilight and generations of McDonald knowledge. Wahya's night vision would spot any trouble long before it reached them. The mountains rose ahead, their ancient slopes offering both challenge and shelter.
The radio in her go-bag crackled softly - preset to the frequency her father had designated for emergencies. Through the static, she caught fragments: "...increased monitoring..." "...facial recognition deployed..." "...medical records flagged..."
Each word confirmed that their family's preparations hadn't been paranoia after all. The question was: what had her father seen coming that the rest of them were only now beginning to understand?
River Retreat
The last mile to River Retreat required all of Lane's inherited knowledge. The gravel road wound through shadow-dark hollows, each turn identical to untrained eyes. But Lane read the signs her grandfather had taught them: the bent branch of a rhododendron, the peculiar stack of stones that looked natural but marked family paths, the way certain trees had been trimmed to create blindspots in satellite coverage.
Wahya's behavior shifted as they approached home. His muscles tensed, nose working overtime, head moving in the precise pattern that indicated electronic surveillance. Lane's hands tightened on the steering wheel. They weren't alone.
The house came into view gradually - her mother's reading lamp casting a warm glow through the kitchen window. But something was off. The light's position was wrong by inches, and the curtain hung differently. Their family's warning signs, subtle but clear to those who knew where to look.
Lane guided the Jeep behind the massive oak her great-grandfather had preserved specifically for this purpose - its dense canopy creating a natural blind spot. The engine died silently, momentum carrying them to a perfect stop. In the darkness, she heard the soft click of Wahya's nails on the floorboard - three taps, pause, two taps. More electronics nearby.
A shadow detached itself from the deeper darkness near the driveway. Lane's hand moved toward the hidden compartment under her seat, but Wahya's relaxed posture told her it wasn't necessary.
"A Charaid," came her grandfather's voice, the Gaelic greeting carrying more meaning than just 'friend.' Xander McDonald emerged from the darkness like a Highland wraith, moving with the fluid grace that had once made him legendary in circles he never discussed.
"Bobam," Lane responded softly, using the intimate Gaelic term for grandfather. "I wasn't expecting..."
"No one expects much these days," he cut her off, his Scottish burr thicker than usual - a warning sign she'd learned to heed since childhood. "That's rather the point. Your mother's got the kettle on, and we need to talk. Something's happened in Beaufort."
The mention of Beaufort sent a chill through Lane's medical training. Her sister Lillibeth's last message had mentioned unusual patterns in her special needs students' health records. At the time, it had seemed like a minor concern.
"Lillibeth?" The question barely carried past her lips.
"Safe. But not here." Xander's hand brushed the sgian-dubh in his boot - the traditional Highland dagger that four generations of McDonalds had carried. The gesture spoke volumes. Her grandfather never touched the blade unless matters were dire.
They approached the house from the blind side, using the path that wound between the security system's coverage. Fresh scratches around the side door's lock caught Lane's medically-trained eye. Recent. Made by shaking hands.
Inside, the scene was precisely arranged chaos. Her mother stood at the stove, the kettle's whistle masking other sounds. The emergency radio sat behind the cookie jar, its antenna positioned exactly as they'd practiced. Medical supplies were staged on the counter - not their regular first aid kit, but the serious trauma gear Lane had helped stockpile.
Jacob's notebook lay open on the table, its pages dense with equations that seemed to ripple in the lamplight. Lane recognized fragments of medical algorithms mixed with something more complex. The same notebooks her sister had thought important enough to protect.
"Your father knew this day would come," her mother said without turning, hands steady as she prepared tea with deliberate movements. "He saw the patterns in the hospital systems years ago. The way they were connecting everything. Tracking everyone."
Wahya took up his position by the window, but his attention wasn't on potential threats. He was watching, waiting for others. The gathering they'd prepared for but hoped would never come.
Lane's medical training kicked in, cataloging resources, planning for contingencies. She'd always been the family healer, following in the footsteps of those ancient McDonald physicians who had treated both body and soul. Now she understood why her father had insisted she learn the old ways alongside the new.
"The storm isn't just coming," her grandfather said, reading her thoughts in that uncanny way of his. "It's been here all along. We just couldn't see it through all their digital fog."
The real question wasn't whether River Retreat would be enough.
The question was: how many could they save when the truth finally broke?
The Gathering Dark
Lane unpacked her medical supplies with practiced efficiency, arranging them alongside her mother's preparations. Each item had been chosen carefully - untraceable, nothing with RFID chips or serial numbers that could be tracked. Old school medicine, the kind her McDonald ancestors would have recognized.
"Tell me about Lillibeth," she said, keeping her voice steady as she sorted through trauma supplies. The mention of Beaufort still hung heavy in the air.
Xander settled into his chair by the fire, his fingers absently tracing the worn cover of Jacob's notebook. "Your sister saw it first, through her students. Changes in behavior, gaps in memory - subtle things only someone who knew them well would notice. Then she found the patterns in their medical records."
"The new health monitoring systems," Lane breathed, pieces clicking into place. Her own hospital's 'upgrades' suddenly took on a darker meaning.
"Aye. But she didn't just find the patterns - she found who was making them." He opened the notebook, revealing pages of Jacob's precise handwriting. "The lad has a gift for seeing what others miss. He showed Lillibeth how to track the changes back to their source."
The kettle's whistle cut through the tension. Eliza poured four cups, then a fifth - anticipating company. As if summoned by the thought, Wahya's ears pricked forward.
"They'll be here soon," Eliza said, her voice carrying the same tone she'd used during hurricane evacuations. "Ted first, then Patrick. They're taking different routes, staying off the grid."
Lane's phone - the secure one - buzzed one final time:
Session: Highland Shepherd: "The board is set. Dawn brings the first move."
Through the window, distant headlights flickered between trees - approaching via the old logging road. Wahya remained relaxed, recognizing friendly movement.
"Get some rest," Xander advised, standing with that fluid grace that belied his years. "Tomorrow, we begin. Your father's plans, the ones we thought were just precautions? They're not just plans anymore."
Lane nodded, her medical training already cataloging what they'd need. Not just for their family, but for others who would come. River Retreat was about to become what it was always meant to be - a sanctuary in the digital storm, a place where the old knowledge could protect against new threats.
As she headed upstairs to her childhood room, Lane caught a glimpse of her grandfather adding another log to the fire. The flames cast his shadow large against the wall, reminiscent of the Highland chieftains who had once sheltered their people through countless storms.
Tomorrow would bring Ted with his digital expertise, Patrick with his aerial reconnaissance, and news from her father that would change everything. But tonight, in this moment between knowing and acting, Lane finally understood why the McDonalds had always been healers.
Some wounds couldn't be seen. Some sicknesses infected entire systems. And sometimes, the only cure was to remember the old ways while fighting the new threats.
In her room, Wahya settled by the door as Lane checked her medical kit one final time. In the distance, more headlights approached through the gathering dark.
The storm was here.
