Warden Hallum was incredibly skilled. The stitches had been tight, ordered, and perfectly precise, even while I’d struggled to stay still.
But Shiloh did not look relieved as I’d hoped she would.
“But just because it wasn’t as bad as it could have been,” she said softly, “doesn’t mean it wasn’t bad.”
“I suppose that is true,” I said at length. “There are varying degrees of badness and goodness to everything. I healed well, all things considered. And I believe I am as capable, just as I am now, as any other man could hope to be.”
“Oh, of course!” she said at once. “Though…If I can ask? And just tell me if you don’t want to answer…”
“You can ask me anything.”
“Since you are obviously very strong and competent…And I understand you have other animals to care for besides all the other chores you do…So, why don’t you have the cattle, too?”
“Ah.” How best to explain it? “I ceased ranching after my injury, but not because of the amputation itself. I cannot…I find it very difficult to be around adult male bracku now. My heart feels as if it will beat right out of my chest, and it becomes very hard to breathe.”
I hoped that did not make me sound weak or wrong to her ears. Or defective in some way. I did not like to admit these things to her, in case they might negatively sway her opinion of me. But I’d told her that she could ask me anything. And I had meant it.
I would be honest with her. Always.
Even if it was to my detriment.
But she did not look at me any differently now. She did not seem to be judging me, or finding me wanting for not being able to wrangle a herd, even now, even as a full-grown man. She was merely moving her head up and down in that human way, understanding in her eyes.
“Oh, yeah. That makes sense,” she said.
And I stared at her then. Just stared and stared.
Because never once had anyone said such a thing to me before. It did not feel like she was simply saying, “That makes sense.”
It felt as if she gazed upon me – all of me – and believed thatImade sense.
“It’s something likepee tea ess dee, right? I’d have to imagine a lot of the guys here struggle with similar issues.”
“All the others can manage their herds.”
“Oh, no. I don’t mean specifically about the cattle. But even just to end up here, you’ve all gone through somethingtraumatic. I think I already know the answer to this next question. But have any of you ever gotten any therapy?”
My blank look must have confirmed whatever she already thought. Though, really, I was still trying to understand the bit about the urine tea she had mentioned.
“About the tea…” I began. I really did not want to make such a drink for her.
Or drink it, if that was what she was about to suggest.
“The tea? That part stands for traumatic. Post traumatic stress disorder. Maybe that’s not the same name you use in Zabria.”
“It must not be,” I said. “I have never heard of such a thing.”
Warden Hallum had certainly not given the condition a name. He’d merely told me that he’d seen similar issues from time to time in other soldiers in the Zabrian Guard.
I remembered, when he’d told me that, almost feeling worse. Feeling that I had no right to such emotions or experiences. I was not a soldier fighting for the empire. I was merely a young, exiled convict, a foolish boy who’d had a bad time with an angry, overgrown cow.
But perhaps Shiloh did not see it this way. She tapped her chin, her gaze thoughtful.
“There’s art therapy,” she was muttering now, seemingly more to herself than me.
“What was that?”
“Oh! Nothing. Sorry, just talking to myself.”
