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“So it’s an investment.”
He swallows, or struggles to. “Fuck,” he rasps. “I don’t know.”
“So…” I draw a big breath in. “Are you still sniping?”
“No, but—”
“Any of the other things I mentioned?”
He looks frustrated; tight-jawed.
“Okay.” I shrug. “So what about your life is so terrible that it might hurt me?”
“You want that answered?”
I nod. “Yes.”
TEN
Gwenna
“I see things sometimes,” he whispers hoarsely. “When I started…” He laughs, just a hoarse rasp. “There used to be this stereotype about the old Nam vets. That they were all so head-fucked. Seeing things and hearing shit and ending up on street corners because they couldn’t keep their shit together.” He shuts his eyes and rubs his head.
“Is that what you’re afraid of? That you’ll end up on a street corner?” I’m surprised to find my eyes burn as I say it. My throat stings. I have to inhale slowly, to be sure no tears spill over.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know.” I step over to him, wrap an arm around his waist. When he doesn’t tense and doesn’t pull away, I wrap my other arm around his back. I stroke his hair and pull him closer to me. And I hug him—long and hard, the way I think his mother would have hugged him. Because regardless of his sins, right now, I can feel his pain, and I want to ease it.
When I loosen my grip on him, I look up and am relieved to see his eyes.
“You’re secure here, though, yeah? You have a house. You have ideas about another job that you’d be great at. Barrett—you’ve been teaching your disabled neighbor new self-defense techniques. You leave your house, you hunt. I know you’re having trouble sleeping, but from the outside, it looks like you’re doing well. And without family close by, either. You don’t see a therapist?”
He shakes his head.
“And still, you’re getting by. It will get easier. If you can hold on—and I know you can—things will get better as more time goes by. That’s the one thing I can tell you.”
I press myself against his chest again and rest my cheek against his chest as his arm comes around me loosely. “I can help you with the seeing things, and the nightmares. Even for my measly case of PTSD, I pulled out all the stops and saw a really good therapist and did the right things. I can teach you all the things I know.”
“You don’t get it, Gwen.” His voice cracks. I can feel his chest move as he swallows. “I don’t deserve it.”
“Why?” I lean back a little, so I can see his face.
He shakes his head.
“Try to explain it. You don’t have to tell me word for word. But tell me something.”
“Do you understand how Army convoys work?” he whispers.
I shake my head. I know what a convoy is, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have whatever knowledge he’s referencing.
“All the vehicles—tanks, Hummers or Bradleys—move in a line. It’s usually when a large number of troops are traveling. Maybe moving camp. So you go through villages. They know.” He blinks. “The people know to stay away. You know about IEDs, I guess?”
I nod.
“Well, they’re always in our path. You don’t stop unless…something specific happens. There’s a chain of command.”
I nod again, trying to keep my face soothing or neutral.
“Kids don’t know.” He takes a deep breath. “Sometimes—” his voice cracks a little— “All those fucking kids. You’d have to leave them. If someone gets hurt—a villager—you help them.” He swallows. “We’re all medics. Most of the older Operators, we’re field medics. They were all ages. Sometimes…little, little kids. There could be no swerving. Sometimes drivers would—” He shakes his head. “But it wasn’t allowed. The enemy would use children. Sometimes they’d come right at you with grenades.”
