"It'll only be for special circumstances." Lester persisted.

Silence on the other end of the line.

"Only for gunshot wounds…and the like."

"We've been here before, Lester." Ivy sighed tiredly. She stared at the clock on the stove. She had work in twenty minutes. The afternoon light streamed through the jalousie windows in her small kitchen. Too small. Mirror Park was getting so expensive these days.

"I know. I know." Lester said calmly, but Ivy could hear the tension seeping into his words; he was desperate, especially if he had contacted her. It meant there was no one else. "How's…how's your dad doing?"

Lester let the words linger in the air for a moment. He felt Ivy take a heavy breath.

"Not good."

"I could set up a cut for you. Each heist. You'd be able to go back to South Yankton and see your father. Get him the treatment he needs." Lester spoke quickly, enthusiastically. He really needed her.

Ivy hesitated. She knew this would be money—real money. She knew it was real; she'd had it when she worked with Lester before. But she'd lost it all, too.

"Fine."

"Really?" Lester asked, incredulous.

"Yeah."

"So what hospital are you working at now?"

"I'm not working at a hospital." Ivy swallowed hard. What was she getting herself into?

"Where can we send them then?"

"My apartment, I guess." She shrugged and looked around at the midcentury abode she shared with her dog Charlie. "But I'll need supplies."

"Sure thing!" He replied, "You still in Mirror Park?"

"Yes."

"OK," Lester said in a tone that reminded her of the old days, "I'll give you a ring on the burner when we have a job."

"OK."

"Thanks, Ivy." He finally let out a sigh of relief, "You're a lifesaver."

He was buttering her up. "Right."

Ivy could feel it coming and barely let the burner phone ring once before picking up and responding to Lester's job call. It was three a.m. on that next Saturday that the knock—the pound—on the door came. She stumbled out of bed and found her way to her door. Charlie, ever aware, was at her side, his ears erect and his nose sniffing the gap in the door with suspicion.

"Who is it?" She called out the requisite question as she pictured the location of her handgun in her living room closet. Perhaps she should have it with her. Too late.

"Lester….sent me…" The voice, muffled and breathless, came from beyond the door.

There was a stumble and a thud.

Ivy opened the door while keeping the chain latched. In the bottom of the doorway, she saw a crumpled man with bloodstains all over his jacket. He'd passed out cold. She closed the door, unlatched the chain, and he tumbled into her living room when she'd opened it again.

He was alone, which was unusual; those sent by Lester traditionally had at least one person with them, either for aid or because it had been a two-man job. Very rarely did she ever get a solo job.

Mustering all of her strength, she lifted, or dragged, him onto her kitchen table which would now serve as an examining/operating table. She assessed him quickly and found several lacerations, contusions, and three gunshot wounds: the upper left arm, the lower right abdomen, and the foot. She raced through her apartment quickly, gathering any and all items she would find useful for the impossible task before her. Lester hadn't come through with the needed supplies yet and so she would have to make do with her sewing kit, scissors, tweezers, hydrogen peroxide, rubbing alcohol and leftover antibiotics.

Ivy then went about the process she knew all too well as a Los Santos emergency room nurse: treating gunshot wounds. Judging from the old scars on his body, this man had been through a lot, though there were relatively few recent scars. It seemed he had taken a break from the mayhem of life on the lam. She briefly wondered as she treated the wound in the back what caused him to re-enter this line of specific work. Perhaps he had few choices, like she did. As she finished bandaging the last wound, the patient started to stir.

"Sir?" She managed as she realized she didn't even know his name because she didn't have time to search for a license (and very rarely in these cases did she ever find one).

He groaned and mumbled something inaudible.

Ivy pursed her lips and retrieved a throw pillow from the couch. She lifted his head gently and slid the pillow under it. He blinked and, for the first time, locked eyes with Ivy.

"Where am—" He tried.

"Somewhere safe." She replied simply and laid a calm hand against his shoulder to quiet him.

He drifted off again. Ivy stayed up to watch over him, and he seemed to be tolerating his injuries well. As the sun began to rise, the man opened his eyes in response to searing hot pain that coursed through his body. He winced audibly. Ivy, who had only dozed for a few minutes, shot up from the couch and sprinted into the kitchen.

"Motrin." She replied, "it's the best I have right now. Can you try to sit up?"

He nodded, still in pain, and switched his position so that he was resting against the wall beneath the hanging wire fruit basket.

She presented him with two tablets, and he swallowed them quickly without water.

Seems we have a tough guy here. She thought.

"You new?" He asked tersely.

"No…not really. Are you new?"

He gave one short laugh before wincing again. "No. Not at all."

He tried to move to get himself off the table, but his legs failed him. Fortunately, Ivy caught him in her arms.

"I think I can handle this—" He started.

"Sure," Ivy placated him, "but why don't we move you to the couch. You'll be more comfortable there."

He silently relented and allowed her to assist him to the living room.

She smelled really good, he noted. "You have a name?"

"Yes, I do." She helped him sit down and then lifted his legs onto the couch. He winced again.

"What is it?"

She raised her eyes to him as she covered him with a blanket, "It's Ivy."

"…Like the poison kind … or…?" He managed a half smile.

"Yeah… like the poison." She sat next to him and put her stethoscope buds into her ears, unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, and placed the disk onto his exposed chest. She watched the second hand on her watch and felt his eyes on her.

After a minute, Ivy spoke, "things look good."

"When can I go?" He asked.

She removed her stethoscope buds from her ears and swung it around her neck as she considered his question. In a hospital, he would have to stay for a few days. Here, there were no rules. "Probably pretty soon. I'll check the rest of your vitals, but you could go today. You should rest now though; you've lost a fair amount of blood. I'll send you the cleaning bill."

"Fair enough." He smiled, his eyes never leaving her. "So, Ivy, what do you do when you're not sewing up crooks like me?"

She reached over and laid her palm on his forehead, and he relished her gentle touch. "Let me get the thermometer."

Ivy got up and went into the kitchen. She returned and stuck the thermometer in his mouth. Even so, he asked the question again, then added, "you a nurse at the hospital? Can I get you to treat me there—you know, for other stuff?"

Ivy pretended to straighten the books on the coffee table and ignored his penetrating gaze while she waited for his temp reading. "No. Not anymore. I worked with Lester on the side, and I got fired for it."

"I see." He said as she took the thermometer out. "But you still work with him?"

"Just started again."

"Hmm. Me too." The man said, sensing that she didn't want to talk to him. He didn't want to push her. He knew he'd be coming to visit her a lot.

He didn't know when he fell asleep, but he awoke again in the early afternoon. Ivy took his vitals again, and, as she deemed everything normal, she gave him the OK to go home.

"First though," she said, "Remove your shirt and sock and I'll change your bandages."

The man was more than obliging and did so obediently while gazing fixedly as she prepared the bandages.

"These need to be changed regularly." She stated.

"Yeah…I know." He responded as he watched her work. The man took the time to study her: bright blue eyes rimmed with impossibly long lashes, auburn hair pulled into a simple ponytail, and a small, slight stature that surprised him; she'd been bearing his weight around the apartment like a champ. He found he reveled in her fingertips brushing against his skin as she applied the gauze. The voice of reason was muffled in his brain: he'd been working on this in therapy. He knew if he couldn't control himself, she could spell trouble for him. But now that he was back in the life, he'd see her now. And he'd depend on her. He had to keep her at a distance.

She finished up and helped rebutton his shirt. "There. You're all set."

Ivy showed him to the door, and he turned to her right before he stepped out. The man dug into his wallet and pulled a wad of cash from it. "Here. For you."

"Thank you, but Lester will be paying me my cut."

"I insist."

"No, thank you, though."

The man paused and then put the money back in his wallet. "Let me at least take you to dinner. As thanks."

Ivy cocked her head and suppressed a smirk. This was not the first time she'd dealt with this situation. But she let him play the suave tough guy again.

"No, that won't be necessary."

The man gave a lop-sided smile and told her, "soon, then. I'll take ya somewhere nice."

So much for staying out of trouble. He thought.

Ivy nodded resignedly as he stepped out.

"By the way," he said as he put on his sunglasses, "my name is Michael."

"Pleasure doing business with you, Michael."

"Oh, believe me," he said, throwing the words over his shoulder as he walked down the outdoor steps of her complex, "the pleasure is all mine."