Chương 2
That part never blurred.
His face had gone gray beneath the grime, and his eyes had remained absurdly calm.
“Doc.”
“Don't talk.”
“Wasn't planning a speech.”
Even half dead, Marcus had been sarcastic.
Then the aircraft had taken another hit.
Mercer's pen clicked.
The examination room returned.
“You went somewhere just now,” he said.
“I was looking at the clock.”
“No, you weren't.”
I hated that he was right.
He made a note.
Heat crawled up my neck.
“Don't turn a memory into a diagnosis.”
“I'm observing you.”
“Then observe accurately.”
His chair rolled back an inch.
That was my mistake.
Not because the words were insubordinate enough to matter, but because anger gave him another piece that fit the picture he had already constructed.
Mercer folded his hands.
“Lieutenant, I have treated service members who spent years insisting they were fine because admitting otherwise threatened the only identity they had.”
“I didn't say I'm fine.”
The answer stopped him.
My left hand had begun trembling.
I placed it flat against my thigh.
“I have nightmares,” I said.
“I hate helicopters now.”
He waited.
“I still get on them.”
“That isn't necessarily evidence of wellness.”
“I know.”
“I think you believe I'm attacking you.”
“I think you're preparing to end my career based on records you know are incomplete.”
“Those are different things.”
“Not from this chair.”
Silence settled between us.
Somewhere in the hallway, a sailor laughed, and a cart rattled past the door.
Mercer rubbed the bridge of his nose.
For the first time, he looked tired rather than certain.
“My brother killed himself in 2009.”
I said nothing.
“He hid it well.”
His gaze dropped to my arm.
“Better than anyone should be able to.”
There it was.
Not cruelty.
A scar of his own, invisible and old enough to have hardened into procedure.
It did not make what he was doing right.
It made it worse in a more complicated way.
“I'm sorry about your brother,” I said.
“Don't.”
His answer came sharply.
Then softer, “Don't use that to change the subject.”
“I wasn't.”
“You expect me to see unexplained injuries, disturbed sleep, avoidance, agitation, and simply trust that classified material will make all of it reasonable.”
“No, sir.”
“What do you expect?”
“Due process.”
He stared at me.
Then he turned toward the monitor again.
His cursor moved to the recommendation field.
I watched the arrow hover over the box that would suspend me.
My pulse thudded against the damaged nerves in my forearm.
The physical therapist called that phantom signaling.
My body called it Tuesday.
Mercer selected the field.
I heard myself say, “If you sign that before the clearance office responds, I'll appeal.”
“That is your right.”
His jaw shifted.
“Are you threatening me?”
“No.”
“It sounds remarkably like a threat.”
“It's paperwork.”
That almost made him smile.
Almost.
Instead, he reached for his electronic signature card.
The door opened behind me.
Mercer's expression changed before I turned around.
A tall man in Navy service uniform stood in the doorway on aluminum crutches.
A rigid brace enclosed his right leg from thigh to ankle, and beneath the immaculate uniform his body still carried the slight, guarded stiffness of someone learning which movements no longer belonged to him.
Senior Chief Marcus Rowe looked thinner than he had three months earlier.
He also looked considerably less dead.
Behind him stood Rear Admiral Thomas Bennett and two uniformed legal officers, each carrying a sealed folder.
Marcus planted both crutches inside the room.
“Morning, Doc.”
My throat closed.
He had called me twice during rehabilitation, both conversations monitored and painfully brief, and I had not known he could walk even with assistance.
Mercer rose.
“Senior Chief, this is a medical examination.”
“I noticed the paper gown.”
Marcus glanced at me.
“You look ridiculous, Lieutenant.”
I laughed once before I could stop myself.
It came out dangerously close to a sob.
“Good to see you too.”
Bennett entered and closed the door.
The room suddenly felt built for fewer careers.
“Captain Mercer,” he said, “do not finalize that recommendation.”
Mercer's face hardened.
“Admiral, with respect, my medical judgment isn't subject to command preference.”
“Correct.”
Bennett nodded toward the folders.
“Which is why I am not asking you to change a medical judgment.”
One of the legal officers stepped forward.
“I am providing temporary authorized access to specific medical and operational records relevant to Lieutenant Elena Ward's injuries.”
Mercer looked from the folder to me.
For the first time that morning, uncertainty displaced certainty.
Marcus moved closer.
Each swing of the crutches required visible effort.
“Captain,” he said, “did you ask her how she got those scars?”
“I did.”
“And she wouldn't tell you.”
“She provided an account that could not be verified.”
Marcus nodded slowly.
“Sounds like Ward.”
“Senior Chief,” Bennett warned.
Marcus ignored him.
He stopped in front of Mercer.
“You want to know who gave her those scars, Doctor?”
Mercer did not answer.
“I did.”
My breath caught.
Marcus shifted his weight onto one crutch, reached toward his uniform with his free hand, and unpinned the gold Special Warfare insignia above his ribbons.
“Senior Chief,” I whispered.
“Quiet, Doc.”
His fingers shook as he held it out.
I stared at the insignia instead of taking it.
“That belongs to you.”
“Not today.”
“Marcus.”
It was the first time I had ever used his first name to his face.
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
“Take it, Elena.”
I opened my right hand.
He placed the insignia in my palm and folded my fingers over it.
The metal was warm from his uniform.
Mercer remained standing behind his desk, his signature card untouched beside the keyboard.
Marcus looked at my scarred arm, then at him.
“She didn't make those wounds because she wanted to die.”
His voice had lost every trace of humor.
May you like
“She got them because I wouldn't stop dying, and she was too damn stubborn to let me.”
Mercer looked at Marcus as though the words had changed the dimensions of the room.
