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And by using Danny that way...
Maybe he’d hope to ensure, as best as he could, that his uniform would be found, that Emily would be notified right away, to save her the angst of not knowing...
As though a light had been shut off, Winston went to a dark place inside. A place he’d discovered within himself during his time in that desert. He spent a lot of time there. It was quiet. Peaceful.
Thoughts came more clearly. He’d detoured off point. He went back.
“When I was ordered, as a sign of sovereignty, to deliver up a body, it was as though what I’d done with Danny had been preordained. I went to the body I’d left sitting up against a tree, in my own uniform. He’d been dead less than twenty-four hours. From a distance, I shot it without hesitation. Multiple times. With a couple of my new ‘brothers’ looking on. Then I walked alone up to that pile of mutilated flesh on the ground, lifted it up against me, carried it all the way back to the village and gave it to them.”
He’d delivered up Danny’s body, preventing the young man’s parents from ever having his body back. From having a proper burial.
But not before he’d ripped off the top left of the shirt Danny had been wearing, leaving his own identifiers for anyone to find in what was the site of an obvious massacre.
He’d done it all. One thought leading to the next.
“If you’d been killed in the village, I was told that chances were the insurgents would have sent your uniform, or some kind of identifier, as a taunt, but they’d have destroyed the body,” Emily said.
Which would have made Danny the hero.
They may or may not have sent the uniform. If he’d been killed in that village, chances were his body—and uniform—would have ended up in a burn pit. There were a lot of ifs. Some more sound than others. Just like his thinking that day in the desert, when he’d known he’d never see Emily again.
And maybe changing identities with Danny hadn’t been his best thinking.
The fact that, even so, Emily had followed the train of thought bothered him.
But this—him being here with her—wasn’t about him.
“Killing” Danny, handing over his body, hadn’t been the only life-altering thing they’d required of him. It was enough, though, to show Emily that some changes were irrevocable—the price one paid for the choices one made.
No need to tell her more—to hurt her in a way that would change her forever, too. As long as the goal was met—as long as she was free to move on to a happy life—his job would be done.
When he realized that her hand was still on his arm, because she squeezed it, he moved. Sat back.
“It’s just going to take time, Winston,” she said softly. “The longer you’re here, living your normal life...the sting will become more manageable. And you’ll start to see things from a different perspective.”
What the hell? She was a counselor now? Or parroting what she’d heard from whoever all she’d called that day? A bout of frustration spewed before he could stop it.
“Why does everyone seem to think I don’t know my own mind?”
“I can’t speak for everyone else. I just know you. The way you reacted over there, it’s what I would expect from you, Win. You were in an untenable situation. With people dying around you. You’d had a few weeks’ training in ground combat...”
He wanted none of it.
“Can you just do one thing for me?” she asked.
“What?” He didn’t know if he hoped he could or couldn’t at that point.
“Can you just give this all some time? Wait on the whole lawyer conversation. We don’t even need to talk about the baby. Just give us some time.”
What choice did he have? He needed her happy.
And everyone was telling him the same thing. Take some time. Give it time. No one seemed to get that he’d just given it two excruciatingly long years. He needed to live his life. And to make that happen, bottom line—he had to follow orders.
“How much time?”
Her shrug, the expression on her face...he recognized it. She was laying her heart open to him, not laying down the law.
“I’m guessing you’ll know,” she said now. “Or I will.”
