Chapter 4

I woke several times during the flight but was never more than half-conscious. I dreamt of Riggs. Hazy thoughts of his whiskey eyes and scruffy face smiling at me. His deep, smooth voice talking me through my grief. I'll never see him again and that thought makes me feel kinda empty inside. He's a total stranger to me, but for a few short hours, he was everything I needed—my angel of mercy. A strong hand to hold in the darkness, a comforting smile through the misery. I'll never forget him. Of course, it was just my luck that my nurse was hot as fuck when I was at my absolute worst. There's no better way to make a lasting impression on a guy than to bleed all over him and then cry like a snot-nosed baby.

They kept the morphine flowing steadily, thank God. But once we land? All the transporting and jostling? Yeah, not even the morphine can cushion this blow. The jagged breaks in my bones are grating against nerves that make pain dance up my spine and radiate into every nerve ending in my broken body. It's a pain that goes beyond screaming, beyond crying, even. It's breath-robbing, heart-seizing, dizziness-inducing pain. I'm rushed from the plane to Womack Army Medical Center and sent straight into surgery. The last thing I see is the nurse's face leaning over me, smiling as she tells me to close my eyes.

When I open them again, I'm in a hospital room. The sun shining through my window is too bright for my sensitive eyes, but I can't move to close the blinds. Ironic, really. I'm a soldier, I fight for freedom, yet here I am, a prisoner. I'm imprisoned in this hospital bed—I've lost all freedom and autonomy over my will and my body. My future is uncertain, and so is whether I'll ever walk again.

"Hey!" I shout futilely. My voice sounds hoarse from disuse. "Help!"

Ten minutes pass before a pretty nurse walks in, pushing a rolling med cart. "Specialist Marsh, you're awake!" She smiles, walking over to my bedside to read my monitor. She records my vitals in her chart. "I'm Liza, your nurse. How are you feeling? Can you rate your pain for me on a scale from one to ten?"

"Uh, seven?"

"Is the pain in your legs?"

"Everywhere. I hurt all over." The impact of the fall affected my entire body. "My leg feels like a five, maybe?"

"That's great," she beams. That makes me snicker. Level five pain is great? I'm totally screwed, then. "I'll give you another dose. We transitioned you off morphine. So, you're going to feel some pain, but hopefully, level five is manageable. At least, for now. Every couple of days, you should feel a bit better."

"Can I see it? My leg?"

"Of course." She moves to my bedside, turning down my blanket. "You're all wrapped and bandaged, but when I change your dressing tomorrow, you'll get a clearer picture. Basically, your leg looks a little bit like Frankenstein's Monster ," she grins. "Two rods, seven pins, two plates, staples, sutures, and a partridge in a pear tree. Oh, and a skin graft. The torn flesh over your shin couldn't be saved. You waited too long, or rather, the Army waited too long to transport you here. So we took a graft from your thigh."

"Is that all?" I ask, managing half a smile.

"Actually, no. Your other leg has a fractured femur and tibia, but not a clean break. I guess you could say you got into a fight with the ground and you lost."

"I guess you could say that," I agreed.

"The doctor will round on you in a couple of hours to discuss it with you. In the meantime, I can't offer you anything more delicious than Jell-O or soup for dinner. You're on a liquid diet for twenty-four hours after surgery in case there are complications and you have to go back in."

"I'm not hungry anyway, but thanks. In fact, I feel a little sick."

"It's all the pain meds and antibiotics, and you have an empty stomach, not to mention your pain and everything you've been through. I can give you something to settle your stomach."

Nodding, I smile gratefully. Liza's a doll. When she leaves, I turn my head to stare out the window. Alone again . Less than forty-eight hours ago, I was in the middle of a war zone, living my worst nightmare. Surrounded by bullets and shouting men and women and the roar of the helo blades and jet engines. Now, there's nothing but the eternal solitude and silence that surrounds me. I'm not used to sitting on my ass doing nothing, and now I have all the time in the world to do just that. Nothing .

I can't shut my brain off. Thoughts of Brian and the rest of my team play on an endless loop in my head, like a movie reel.

Brian's gone. Gone forever.

Hot tears burn my eyes, and I don't even try to keep them inside. What would the point be? I'm all alone. There's no one to see me fall apart. The view beyond my window becomes distorted and wavy as my tears fall harder, soaking my cheeks and dripping onto the blanket covering my lap. Our barrack rooms were connected by a shared bathroom. Brian always left the doors open so he could shout to me without having to get up from his bed. We used to shop together at the PX and split everything in half to save on groceries. A large pack of pork chops—two for me, and two for him. The family-size box of cereal that we split into Ziploc bags. A twelve-pack of soda that we shared. He was the other half of me, and now that half was missing.

A loud broken sob wrenches from my chest. His loss hurts so badly it feels like a physical injury. There's so much anguish and emotion squeezing my heart that it's hard to breathe.

"Brian," I choke, squeezing my eyes shut. "I…miss you."

I hear a quiet knock on my door before it's pushed open, and a doctor dressed in a white coat walks in. Grabbing the hem of my blanket, I wipe my eyes and nose and struggle to draw a ragged breath into my lungs to calm myself.

"Specialist Marsh?"

"Yeah," I rasp, my voice unsteady.

"I'm Doctor Silman. I'm the one who did the surgery on your leg. You made a real mess of things," he tells me with a smile. I don't answer because, what can I say to that? It was probably meant to be rhetorical and I'm not in a joking mood. "We were able to piece you back together like Humpty Dumpty. Thankfully, your knee didn't shatter, so we managed to save it, but with the damage done to it, you'll likely need a replacement somewhere down the line."

"Will I—" My voice sounds so strangled that it's not even coming across clearly, and I have to cough twice to clear it before speaking. "Will I be able to walk again?"

"Not right away, of course," he smiles. "But you'll get there. It's going to be a long road."

Why does everyone keep saying that? I'm already tired of hearing it.

"It'll be six to eight weeks before your fractures heal on your left leg. By that time, you should be able to bear weight on your right leg. But you're looking at six months before you can even consider resuming normal activity. We're going to start you on some light physical therapy that you can do right there in the bed, and after you're discharged, when you can bear weight on your right leg, you can begin more intensive therapy."

"So, I'll be here for what, eight weeks?"

The doc nods. "This is our LTAC unit."

"Am I supposed to know what that means?"

He chuckles. "Long-term acute care. Any patient that is with us for longer than twenty-eight days is moved to long-term care." He places a stack of paperwork on my tray table and I have to fight not to roll my eyes. I've read books that aren't as thick as this stack. "If you get bored, you can start on this file." One thing about the Army, they love their paperwork. "I'll be back to round on you tomorrow. Take care."

And then I'm alone again. Alone with my thoughts, my grief, and my fears. I have nothing but time on my hands to sit and think and worry and remember, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to drive myself mad watching this movie over and over again in my head. I need a distraction. I need to feel less alone, connected to someone, anyone, in some way. Palming my cell phone on the bedside table, I dial the only number I have memorized by heart.

"Mama? It's me, Rhett. I'm… I'm back…Home." She sounds joyous, but her happiness brings tears to my eyes. Somehow, just hearing her comforting voice makes me feel safe enough to tap into my grief, and it flows through me like an open tap, making my chest feel heavy and tight. Hot tears burn my eyes and roll down my cheeks. "Yeah, Mama, I'm safe. But…Mama? I got hurt."

Day three of sitting on my ass and trying not to go insane isn't going so well. I build a long stick made from connected straws that extends about twelve feet before it gets too heavy-ended and bends in half.

Day four - I make a splatter paint masterpiece on the wall using red Jell-O . Liza is not amused.

Day five - I sleep mostly, catch a show on the making of the transatlantic railway, and sleep some more.

Day seven - I'm fucking cranky beyond reason. My leg itches but I can't scratch it. Liza says it's the skin graft and stitches healing. She changed my dressings and wrapped it in a soft cast. She was right; it looks just like Frankenstein's Monster's leg, pieced and patched together with jagged scars and stitches. It's a fucking mess.

Day nine - I doodle on a sketch pad, contemplating the sleeve of tats I'm gonna get to disguise my scars. My psychological state is deteriorating rapidly. I feel restless and jittery, but empty. So empty. What I wouldn't give to get the fuck outta here and attend Brian's funeral. Grabbing my phone, I google his mom's name, hoping to find her number. There are only two Sandra Biddell's in the Fort Worth area, and I call both, reaching her on the second try.

"Yes, ma'am, this is Rhett Marsh, Brian's buddy." She has to know me; we shared a barracks unit for two years. I met her briefly when she visited the base.

"Rhett?" Emotion thickens her voice, distorting it, and I can tell she's crying from just hearing my name.

"Yes ma'am. It's me. How—" My voice fails me and I clear my throat before continuing. "How are you?"

"I'm trying, Rhett, but I'm not okay. How are you?"

"I'm so sorry, ma'am. He was my best friend. I—I miss him." My fucking voice cracks and I cough again. "I'm in the hospital. Got injured on the same jump as he did." I'm not telling her about his body crashing into mine after he got shot, about tasting his blood on my tongue, or how I clung to him afterward.

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that, Rhett. Are you going to be all right?"

"Yes ma'am, eventually." I feel guilty for admitting I'm gonna live when Brian didn't. "Ma'am? I was with him… after we lost him, I held onto him. He wasn't alone, ma'am." Shit, I said I wasn't gonna mention that, but I did leave out the unnecessary details, at least. Maybe it would bring her comfort to know he wasn't alone. It brought me comfort.

Sandra breaks down again, and I remain silent as she pours out her tears. "I'm glad he had you, Rhett. Thank you, honey. They're going to ship his belongings home. If there's something you want, please call back and let me know. I wish you a speedy recovery."

"Actually, if you could send me a copy of the obituary or somethin', I'd really appreciate that."

"Done. Anything else?"

"Not that I can think of, ma'am. I just want you to know you and your family are in my thoughts and prayers. Brian's a hero. He's my hero."

"Thank you," she cries, and I know I need to let her go before I join her over the edge. As soon as I hang up, it hits me. He asked me to go through his things before his mother saw them. I snort, the first sign of a laugh in over a week. He probably had a porn collection or something. Lube and a cock ring, maybe. But there was no way I could manage to go through his stuff before they ship it to her. I'm stuck in this goddamn bed for five more weeks, at least!

Fuck, I made him a promise. My best friend's last request, and there's no way I ain't gonna fulfill it. I just have to figure out how.

I grab the bed remote and press the red button, and a moment later, Liza's sweet voice fills the speaker. "Do you need something?" she asks.

"Yeah, I need a favor."