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He prayed, he sought out holistic things and this morning, he bought a bottle of holy water from a man selling rosaries and other things from a store at one of his layovers. It sure couldn’t hurt things – and he’d poured the water directly into his boot, so far beyond rational thought it was scary. That water could have been anything, yet he’d dumped it onto his ankle in his boot like a man in the desert finding a swimming pool.
“All right, Collins, you still with me, buddy?” the headphones crackled on his head where he was sitting in the back of the Cessna that had carried him from Texas to Wyoming. “We’re going to be landing in a few. You still hanging on? You’re awfully quiet back there, Collins?”
“I’m alive if that’s what you are asking.”
“Well, yeah,” the pilot chuckled. “I would hope so. We’ll have you down in a few and out of this cramped little plane.”
“Thanks,” Max whispered, feeling sick to his stomach and so blasted hot inside the plane. He was sweating buckets and felt like he was about to vomit. He wasn’t sure how much time passed, but he felt a small bump and realized that the plane was taxiing forward.
“We’re down, buddy… hold tight, and I’ll get the doors.”
Max sat up weakly as the pilot jumped out of the plane and moved to open his door. He saw a white cargo van sitting there on the runway not too far away from the plane, and shockingly, he saw his buddy Ortega standing there with ‘No-Morphine-Houghton’from when he was stationed in Ghazni.
That was the person Logan trusted for medical advice?
“What the…” Ortega uttered in disbelief, staring at Max in undisguised horror at his appearance. He knew he looked bad, but seeing it reflected on the other man’s face – and the grim look on Houghton’s was painfully telling.
“Man, don’t look at me like that,” Max snapped, glaring at his best friend. “I know I look like crap… but you don’t have to stare at the freakshow while you’re at it.”
“How’s the foot?” Houghton asked pointedly.
“It hurts, okay?”
“The break is still healing?” Ortega asked, looking completely bowled over like someone had just informed him that the President was coming to Sunday dinner. “How’s your other leg?”
“Fine. I got the cast cut off yesterday before this flight, and they wanted to keep cutting, if you get my drift. I had to get out of there because no one is lopping off…” Max was obviously lying and mocking their questions to throw them off the ‘scent’ - except that scent was hard to miss.
“Max,” Ortega said hoarsely – and Max swallowed in awareness. They rarely exchanged first names and always used their last names on base. It was just natural there because it was stenciled everywhere and on everything. “Max, how bad is it?”
“Can we just go?”
“Hey,” the pilot interrupted, looking at Ortega. “I hate to interrupt this reunion, but I have something for my fiancee’s sister, Lena. Could you take her something for me? I need to head home.”
“Sure,” Ortega said distractedly, still looking at him in disbelief before following the pilot towards the plane. Houghton was standing there by the van with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at him.
“Well?” Houghton began bluntly, not holding back.
“Well…what?”
“Can you stand on it?”
“Yes, uncomfortably, but yes, I can stand on it.”
“Is your foot still flesh-colored?”
“Like an eggplant,” Max snapped, avoiding the man’s eyes.
“Is it putrid? Fevered? Are there red streaks on your leg?”
Ortega walked back up at that moment where they were standing with this look on his face. He was surrounded by people who wanted to lop off his leg to fix things, and nothing had changed – only the location.
“Max…” Jake whispered painfully, staring at him with such concern that he felt tears sting his eyes. It wasn’t like he was an idiot. He knew his leg was doing badly, but he hadn’t reached his breaking point yet – until now. Seeing the brutal truth in his friend’s eyes, the one person who always had his back on maneuvers, was a sobering thing.
“Not you, too?” Max said hoarsely, his scared eyes meeting his buddy’s. “Don’t stab me in the back like this, Ortega. I can’t… I’m so scared.”
“And I can’t watch you die, brother, not after we’ve been through hell and back – not likethis,” Jake said tearfully as Max backed away from him… and then hesitated. “I am so very sorry, but I can’t let you do this to yourself. I’ll be here when you wake up, and we’ll get through it.”
“Jake,” Max wept, pleading for something, anything, and realized that he would never be strong enough to voluntarily have his leg amputated until it was too late. He didn’t want to die. He just didn’t want to be bound to a wheelchair. Someday, he wanted to run around the backyard with his kids or go hiking in the National Parks – and if they took his leg, he would never be able to do any of that.
