Page 23 of Sweet Courage

“Slow,” she repeated. “Slow.” She stepped back, he stepped forward, the rhythm finding them before either of them went looking for it. “Quick, quick.”

His left foot landed wrong.

She adjusted her weight without announcing it. “Again.”

“Slow, slow—”

“Don’t count out loud.”

“How am I supposed to—”

“You said that you rigged bridges under fire. You can do this without counting out loud.”

Something shifted in his expression. The corner of his mouth moved. “That’s a completely different skill set.”

“Is it?” She stepped back again, drew him with her. “Slow. Slow.” The weight transferred, his hand steadied at her waist, and she felt the moment it clicked—the same way she felt it with Mason when a rule landed, when the sequence stopped being an effort and started being a thing the body simply knew. “Quick, quick.”

He didn’t step wrong.

She didn’t say anything about it. Just kept moving, wishing this moment would never end. And wasn’t that something interesting to figure out?

Chapter Ten

The glowing red numbers of the digital clock on the nightstand shifted to nine forty-five. Hanson sat on the edge of the mattress, his elbows resting on his knees, staring at the changing digits. Alice had quietly slipped the large, easy-to-read clock into his room earlier in the week. A clock with numbers large enough to be read from the moon, a silent and deeply appreciated gesture to help him stay anchored in time. Right now, time was just about the only thing he was sure of.

His first video appointment with the new therapist started at ten. He knew that. He had known it when he woke up. Had known it when Alice reminded him at breakfast. Had known it when his hostess had suggested Charlie’s office would be quieter than his room if he wanted to take the call there. Known it when his mind wandered over to how his buddies had recovered, and then to Gideon and how his therapies might be coming along, and yet, he had checked the clock at least eight times in the last ten minutes.

He looked again. Nine forty-seven. Still. Careful of the pressure behind his left eye, he scrubbed a hand over his face. Not a headache yet. More like the warning before a storm, the faint heaviness that told him if he pushed too hard, stood too long, listened to too much, or pretended too well, he’d pay for it later. This morning had started wrong. Not dramatically wrong. No nightmare. No waking up soaked in sweat with his heart punching through his ribs and the taste of river water in his mouth. Just wrong. He’d gone to the dresser, opened a drawer, then stood staring at a stack of T-shirts, unable to remember why his hand was on the handle. Eventually socks had come back to him after standing there like an idiot for far too long. Then he’d brushed his teeth, shaved, and had to check the moisture on the brush to determine if he’d already brushed. Frustration in all its glory had kicked in over all the little—and sometimes big—things a grown man should be able to manage without turning every morning into a scavenger hunt where the prize was basic competence. His gaze snapped to the clock again before he could stop it. The numbers blurred for half a second, and he blinked them clear. Nine forty-eight.

Slow, slow, quick, quick. The thought came out of nowhere. Not nowhere. Kat. His fingers curled against his thigh. Last night should have been the kind of thing his brain had no room to keep. The house had been too warm, too loud, too full of movement and music and people who knew exactly where they belonged. He should have remembered only pieces. Noise. Color. The ache behind his eye. The window glass reflecting bodies moving in the family room. Instead, he remembered her. Clearly. Her hand in his. Her voice, low and steady, saying, “Slow, slow, quick, quick.” The way she had told him not to look down, then didn’t laugh when he had. The way she had adjusted when he stepped wrong and hadn’t announced his mistake to the entire county. The way she’d known one more minute was not nothing. He remembered that perfectly.

She hadn’t treated him like he was broken. She had looked him right in the eye, challenged his Sapper pride, and demanded he trust his own body. And when his feet had finally caught the rhythm, when the math of the two-step clicked and his muscle memory took over, she hadn’t announced it. She hadn’t praised him with the overly bright, exaggerated enthusiasm people sometimes used when dealing with the injured. She had just smiled, adjusted her grip on his hand, and given him one more minute. One extra minute of gliding across the floor, moving perfectly, and making him feel entirely capable and completely whole. His working memory might be a damaged, leaky sieve, dropping ordinary tasks and daily routines without warning, but his emotional memory was a steel trap. He remembered everything about last night in vivid, high-definition detail.

A soft knock came at the door. “Hanson?” Alice called. “You decent?”

He glanced down at jeans, socks, T-shirt. “Depends on the standard.”

The door opened a few inches, and Alice peered in with the careful expression of a woman trying very hard not to look careful. “Charlie’s office is ready whenever you are. I put a glass of water on the desk.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you rather have something warm? Tea, coffee?”

Shaking his head, he glanced quickly at the clock again. “No thanks. Water is perfect.”

“Sounds good.” She smiled. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”

He nodded. His sergeant’s mother left without fussing. That was another thing about Alice. The woman would build a whole safety net around a person and then pretend she’d merely been passing through with string.

Hanson waited until her footsteps faded before he closed the laptop, tucked it under one arm, and stood to make his way to the late Charlie Sweet’s office. There was work to be done. He had to get his brain functioning again, couldn’t afford to be distracted by a beautiful blonde with a stubborn streak. No matter how perfectly she fit against his side.

At exactly ten o’clock, he clicked the link on his screen. The Zoom window popped open, revealing the professional, compassionate face of his cognitive therapist. A woman with short dark hair and rectangular glasses appeared before him. Behind her was a plain wall, a framed certificate too blurred to read, and a plant that looked more competent than he felt.

“Good morning, Hanson. I’m Dr. Wallace. Can you hear me all right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. And I can see you. How are you feeling this morning?”