Page 104 of A Hero Comes Home

“What bad luck streak?”

“My evaluation at the orthopedic hospital in New York a few days ago proved to be the bomb I feared it would be. The most I can hope for with this gimpy leg is . . . a gimpy leg.”

“I hate when you use that word.”

“It is what it is.”

“And I hate that expression.”

He stifled a grin at her vehemence. “With continued exercise and massage therapy, I might get a little more mobility.”

“See, that’s a positive.”

“If I stop that active regimen or slack off even a little, I could regress to an even worse state.”

“So, you don’t stop. Besides, you enjoy all that exercise crap.”

More stifled grins. “Bottom line. Surgery isn’t an option for all the damage that’s been done to the muscles and ligaments and tendons. I will always be lame, to some extent.”

“Lame, blame, shame! Nazim has a lot to answer for, and hopefully he’s answering for it in hell.”

Jake had seen the news of Nazim’s well-deserved demise while he’d still been back at the hospital in New York. “You got that right.”

“How did the counseling go at that mental health unit?” she asked.

“You know about that?”

She nodded.

“Really well. I’m suffering from PTSD, Sal. I might always be, but I’m getting a handle on controlling the symptoms.”

“That’s good. To me, that’s a bigger hurdle for you than the leg or eye injuries.”

She was right. If he could get his head on straight, the other problems might be manageable.

“Listen to me, Jake. You are a survivor. And it’s time you used that word to describe yourself instead of all those negative ones. And I’ll tell you something else. You have a family and a community that care deeply for you. That is no small thing.”

“You’re going to make me cry, and I’m pretty sure tears aren’t a good idea for the stitches in my eye.”

“Does it hurt?” she asked, lifting the sheet and crawling under it with him.

“What? Whoa! What are you doing?” he asked.

She cuddled up against him and he lifted his arm so she could rest her head on his shoulder. Her left hand was flattened on his belly, low down. “I missed you,” she said.

He kissed the top of her head and said, “I missed you, too.”

“Yeah? How much?”

“Isn’t that obvious?”

She ignored his remark and rubbed his belly in an absentminded sort of way as she talked softly, giving him the news, inconsequential things that had happened while he’d been gone, including the fact that they’d won a humongous trophy for their song at the Lollypalooza.

“The boys can’t wait to show it to you. It’s almost as big as Luke. They think it’s made of gold.”

“Major Durand sent me a video of the performance. I’ve replayed it over and over on my laptop. It was really nice, Sal.”

“You should tell the boys that.”