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Adrenaline kicks in, and within seconds, the pain in my hand ceases. I scramble to my feet and use an oil drum to prop myself up onto the wall, my armpits clinging to it for support. I see Thomas reaching his hand up toward us, blood pooling in his mouth as he struggles to breathe. The return fire erupting from Elkins and Navas’s rifles is muted and the wind halts, releasing grains of sand back down to the earth. Time stops. Thomas looks me square in the eye, his face void of color, and although he seems to be slipping away, his eyes are begging me for help. If they could speak, I know just what they’d say—please, don’t let me die.
Elkins and Navas stop to reload, and three more rounds come through. One rockets past the tops of our heads. The other two rip into Thomas’s dying body, successfully yanking away any remaining life.
I can’t move. I can’t speak. I can’t think. I just stare at the new contortion the round has made of his face and I’m numb. Completely numb.
I don’t hear my team yelling for me to get down. I remain on the wall, my head still exposed to the enemy, when something inside of me snaps. I shoot my attention back to my team—a fierce determination now blazing from my eyes. “We aren’t going to fuckin’ leave him here!”
“We aren’t saying that, Sarge. We can come back and get him once we have some support!” Elkins hollers, his voice strained and raw. He fires three more shots toward the enemy. “No way we make it out alive going back over there, Sarge. No fucking way!”
I contemplate this for a moment as more gunfire comes crashing into our position, piercing the wall and throwing bits of rock and shrapnel into my arm and cheek. I don’t feel it, but I rub my face against my arm, clearing the blood from my eyes, and look down at Thomas, then back to Elkins and Navas.
Before they can convince me otherwise, I pull myself completely up onto the wall as if I were weightless, and I sit on its edge. Navas calls for cover fire. I nod my head toward him, and with that I drop from the wall feet first.
It all happens so fast that I’m left with absolutely no time to think. A rocket-propelled grenade round heads straight for me, flames streaking behind it, and just as my feet touch the ground, the explosion takes control of my body.
The first few seconds are what I imagine hell being like. Flames race up either side of me, enveloping me in heat and blinding me of all else. The force tosses me violently into the air, and then I meet the ground so hard that all the air erupts from my lungs. I fight to breathe, struggling to put out the fire that cooks my legs—or what’s left of them. The last thing I see b
efore darkness engulfs me is a charred fusion of flesh, bone and uniform where my legs should be.
And Katie … I see Katie.
“Not About Angels” - Birdy
PLEASE BE OKAY.
Please be okay.
Please be okay.
Those three little words play on repeat in my head as my feet pound against the pavement. My arms pump furiously, propelling me across the parking lot. With each step my panic grows, and my heart is slamming so hard inside my chest, I’m certain it could fly right out. My lungs are burning, begging me to slow down. But I can’t … not until I see him—not until I know that he’s okay.
Thunder rumbles through the sky followed by a loud crack of lightning, and the clouds open up, bathing me in bone-chilling rain. Pushing a chunk of sopping wet hair from my face, the doors to the hospital come into view. Almost there. Plowing my way through a group of bodies, I sprint into the waiting room. My feet hit the tile floor, sliding out from under me, and I scramble to keep myself upright.
Everything from this point forward is a complete blur. I’m running on pure adrenaline and fear, and the need to be with Devin is consuming every single part of me. So when the blue dots that I’d been instructed to follow disappear, I look up, catching sight of a small sign hanging on the wall, and I sigh in relief.
TRAUMA ICU
PLEASE USE INTERCOM FOR ASSISTANCE
ICU VISITING HOURS
M-F 9AM – 5PM
SAT & SUN 9AM – 7PM
This is it.
Devin is in there. Squeezing my eyes shut, I say a silent prayer to whoever is listening. Relief that I’m going to get to see him unfurls in my chest, and for the first time in two days I feel like I can breathe.
A small black speaker is embedded in the wall next to the door and a tiny button is perched under it. Lifting my hand, my finger hovers above the unassuming button, and with a deep, optimistic breath, I push it. Several excruciating seconds later, a soft voice crackles through the speaker.
“Can I help you?”
“Um … yes, I’m here to see Devin Clay.” Everything is quiet, minus the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears as I wait for a response.
“Ma’am, visiting hours have ended for today. If you could, please come back tomorrow any time after nine a.m.”
My heart drops to my toes and I shake my head. I heard what she said, but it doesn’t make sense. She isn’t going to let me see him? “What?” I croak, stepping closer to the door. The familiar burn of tears builds behind my eyes, and I swallow past the lump sitting firmly in my throat. “No,” I shriek, shaking my head frantically. This isn’t happening. “You don’t understand. I need to see him now. Please,” I plead, pushing the button again because I don’t even know if she’s listening—and I need her to listen. “Please let me see him.”
