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The guy behind the counter peers down at my .380, shaking his head. “It’s real nice,” he drawls. “I’ll give you that. I can do nine hundred—if you tell me where it came from.” His eyes meet mine.
“I had it over in Iraq,” I tell him, shifting my weight. And a lot of other places, but it’s easier to stick to places troops were stationed for long stretches.
The guy nods slowly, knowingly. His Braves cap casts a shadow over his face, but I can see his chapped lips tighten. He touches something I can’t see behind the counter, and I hear a jingle. His hand lifts up dog tags on a chain that seems to be hanging from a nail in the back of the counter.
“I get that,” he says, nodding more. His hazel eyes meet mine. “I might keep this one for myself.” He looks down at the gun. “If you change your mind and not much time’s gone by, you let me know.”
I smile, because that’s kind, but I won’t need it.
“No worries,” I tell him.
We share a hard handshake—it still feels odd with my right hand—and the guy reaches over the counter to clasp me on the shoulder.
“Take care,” he tells me. As I head toward the door, he says, “Hang on.”
I turn to find him holding out a business card.
Gatlinburg Veteran’s Association is embossed in black across the front.
“It’s mostly younger guys,” he says. I look at the lines on his face, putting him at maybe mid-30s. “Me and a couple Marines. One Ranger. Just got started up.”
I look from the card to his eyes. “You work out around here?”
He steps out from behind the counter, lifts his pants leg. I see metal. “Not much working out these days.”
“I’m opening a martial arts place. Free for vets,” I hear myself say. “How long have you had the prosthetic?”
“Not long, man. About four months. Just got done rehabbing it around the end of summer.”
I look down at the prosthetic, trying to figure out if it’s transfemoral or transtibial without lifting the leg of his pants. I settle for asking him, “Knee, too?”
He nods. “Lost the whole thing from the thigh down.”
I nod. That does make it harder. “Ever ran on it?”
He laughs. “Hell no. Barely even walk on it.”
“You got another card?”
He grunts, not meeting my eyes as he moves back behind the pawn shop counter.
“I’m gonna give you my number, man. Let me know if you want to work out sometime. I could help you with it. Used to train a bunch of guys.”
He jots my number down and slides the card into his pocket. “Thanks, man. Means a lot.” He holds his hand out. “Patrick Rice.”
“Barrett. Drake,” I tack on. No reason to be evasive. Not anymore.
* * *
Sean Eddins is an old Ranger. He’s short and round around the middle, with a brown comb-over and delicate, silver wire-rimmed reading glasses. His office is on the second floor of a downtown office building where he’s the only mental health professional in the unit. To get to it, I have to walk by the offices of two CPAs, a masseuse, a pediatric dentist, and a cosmetic salesperson. There’s a small, gold nameplate on his door.
“Doc” it says. That’s all.
The door opens before I close my hand around the handle. I can’t help laughing.
“Good ears.”
He gives a deep, belly laugh, slaps me hard between the shoulder blades, and waves to a lumpy, corduroy couch in the small, dimly-lit office.
