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His eyes flashed to the sign next to the door. “DAVID A. MCCOY, M.D.”

He was back in Georgia—Forsyth, to be exact.

He’d only ever seen the waiting room this empty after hours, yet all the lights were on. The counter, where there would be a receptionist, was unoccupied.

A noise from behind McCoy made him turn around. In a little niche, where children’s toys were kept, the hovertrain was running.

“This wasn’t exactly what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

McCoy spun around, immediately spotting his father at the reception desk. His father looked as he did when McCoy was a boy. Above a proud face with dark gray eyes, his dark brown hair was cut short. He was dressed in scrubs. A little black bag sat in front of him on the counter.

“Contact,” McCoy said. “A welcoming committee. Hell, even a party. Not more of the same.”

“Maybe you should stick to medicine,” his father replied. “This place needs you—you left it behind. Leave the space stuff to the professionals.”

“I am a professional!”

“That’s why your cure for my suffering was death?” asked his father. “You stopped being a doctor.”

“Never!” He turned around and headed for the door to the waiting room. “I have some patients to find.”

“Running away like always!” his father shouted after him. “This place needs you, son! Stay here!”

McCoy swung the door open, expecting to find West Chambers Street. “The only reason I’m running—”

“—is to help people.”

The first thing McCoy saw was a group of muscular humanoids, dressed in colorful clothes decorated with fur, all significantly taller than the doctor.

“This is Capella IV.” The planet where he’d spent six months learning the local medical traditions and teaching the natives some new ones.

“Of course it is,” his father said. He was standing in the center of the group of giants, the tallest of them. He had suddenly grown to almost two and a half meters. “This is where you went to get away from me, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t run away, I was posted here.” McCoy crossed his arms in a defensive stance.

“Who selected the assignment?” demanded his father, sneering. “The outsider must be put to death!”

He reached out with the spear in his hand and stabbed McCoy through the chest.

For a fraction of a second, there was nothing. Then, pain filled McCoy, welling up from where his pierced heart still beat, working its way out to his fingertips. Every inch of him screamed in agony. His legs weakened, he fell to the ground. McCoy tried to inspect his chest, but there was nothing there, no blood, no wound. But the pain remained.

McCoy wished it would stop. The humanoids were standing all around him, more than he could count. He knew them all. They weren’t Capellans. They were his father, SCPO Hendrick, Ensign Rellik, Lieutenant Rizzo, and others, too many to name. They were everyone who had died under his care.

A communicator appeared in his hand—his own, judging from the scratches and dents on the cover. With what little strength he could muster, he flipped it open.

“Enterprise, one to—”

“—beam up.”

The pain was gone. He was standing in a darkened transporter room. The only light was coming from the lit-up circle beneath his feet.

“I never thought I’d be glad for that blasted thing.”

The pad next to him lit up, illuminating the person on it from below. “Don’t kid yourself, Bones. The transporter has saved your skin more times than you can count.”

McCoy felt his mouth broaden into a grin. “Jim, am I glad to see you!” He tried to move toward the other man, but he couldn’t get past the column of light. “Why can’t I move?”

“You’re safe here, Bones,” Jim replied with a shrug. “Isolated, protected.”

“That’s not what I want!” insisted McCoy. “I went into space to do good, not to save myself!”

“If you had wanted to do good, the logical thing to do was to remain at home.” With a flash, the next pad lit up. It was Spock. “Perhaps you should have enrolled in medical school. I believe the space-focused course of study is a mere four years.”

“You blasted