Chương 6
We left the medical building twenty minutes later.
Bennett disappeared toward headquarters with the lawyers and the locked case.
Mercer stayed behind with my record and, presumably, his revised opinion of me.
Outside, the base moved as if nothing important had happened.
A delivery truck idled beside the loading dock.
Two sailors argued over whose turn it was to refill a printer.
Somebody on a bicycle coasted through a stop sign and received an enthusiastic lecture from security.
I stood beside Marcus at the curb while his driver brought the government SUV around.
The gold insignia was still in my hand.
“You forgot this.”
“No.”
“Marcus.”
“Put it in your pocket before you drop it.”
“I can't take it.”
“You already did.”
“I was in shock.”
“You're a physician.”
“Physicians are allowed shock.”
“Not according to Mercer.”
I looked down at the pin.
The gold surface had small scratches I had never noticed when it was on his uniform.
One edge was slightly worn.
It had existed through more of his life than I had.
“You earned this.”
“So did you.”
“No, I didn't.”
His expression sharpened.
“Don't make me explain symbolism before coffee.”
“You hate symbolism.”
“I hate feelings disguised as symbolism.”
“That sounds like a feeling.”
“Exactly.”
The SUV pulled up.
Marcus ignored it.
I turned the insignia over.
His name was engraved on the back in tiny letters with a date from almost two decades earlier.
“Why this?”
He stared out toward the parking lot.
“Because I woke up in Germany and couldn't feel my leg.”
His voice changed when he said it.
The dry edges disappeared.
“My wife was there.”
I waited.
“She looked terrible.”
“You're romantic.”
“She'd been awake for about thirty hours.”
“Still.”
“I asked what happened.”
His jaw moved once.
“She said you kept me alive.”
The driver got out and opened the rear door.
Marcus waved him off.
“I didn't believe her.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Because I remembered pieces.”
His eyes went to my arm.
“I remembered you bleeding.”
The parking lot noise seemed to thin around us.
“I remembered the crew chief yelling at you.”
He rubbed one thumb across the handle of his crutch.
“And I remembered thinking you were going to die before I did.”
I said nothing.
“I kept asking for the after-action report.”
“You weren't cleared during recovery.”
“I know.”
“That must have made you pleasant.”
“My wife considered murder.”
“She has good judgment.”
Marcus almost smiled.
“When they finally let me read the statements, I saw what you did.”
“You would have done the same.”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
I looked at him.
He nodded toward my scarred arm.
“I would like to think I would.”
“That sounds modest.”
“It's accurate.”
He leaned harder on the crutches.
“I've spent twenty-six years around men who like stories about courage because stories make courage look clean.”
His voice was quiet.
“It wasn't clean in that aircraft.”
“No.”
“You were crying.”
My throat tightened.
“I don't remember that.”
“The crew chief does.”
I looked toward the SUV.
The driver pretended to study his phone.
Marcus continued.
“You were scared.”
“I know.”
“You kept going.”
I shoved the insignia into my pocket.
“Please stop.”
He did.
No argument.
No senior chief order.
Just silence.
That stopped me more effectively than anything else could have.
I looked at him.
“I don't know what to do when people talk about it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I was brave.”
“You were.”
“It didn't feel brave.”
“It never does.”
“You don't know what it felt like.”
His face changed.
The instant the words left my mouth, I wanted them back.
He looked down at the brace enclosing his leg.
“No,” he said.
“I suppose I don't.”
“Marcus.”
“It's fine.”
“No, it isn't.”
He adjusted one crutch.
The motion was careful, deliberate, defensive.
I had hurt him.
Not physically.
That almost would have been easier.
“I shouldn't have said that.”
“Probably not.”
“I know you were there.”
“I was mostly unconscious.”
“You nearly died.”
“Yes.”
“I was trying to say—”
“I know what you were trying to say.”
“That makes one of us.”
The driver shifted a few feet away.
Marcus looked tired now.
Not theatrically tired.
Old tired.
The kind that settled behind the eyes and made rank, humor, and pride feel temporarily expensive.
“I hated you for about two weeks,” he said.
I blinked.
“What?”
“In Germany.”
“Why?”
“Because I woke up.”
The words landed with no warning.
He stared at the pavement.
“My leg didn't work.”
My mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
“My pelvis was held together with hardware.”
He spoke plainly, almost clinically.
“They told me there was nerve damage.”
His fingers tightened around the crutch.
“They told me I might never return to full duty.”
I had spent three months thinking his survival was the one clean victory from that night.
Marcus glanced toward me.
“I knew you saved me.”
He swallowed.
“I wasn't grateful every minute.”
There was no anger in his voice.
That made it harder.
“I had days where I wished you hadn't.”
I looked away.
A helicopter moved somewhere beyond the buildings.
Far enough that the sound was low and distant.
My shoulders tightened anyway.
Marcus heard it too.
His eyes moved toward the sky, then quickly back.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
The rotor noise faded.
“I didn't know,” I said.
“You weren't supposed to.”
“Why?”
“Because you were recovering.”
“So were you.”
“Yes.”
“You called me every Thursday.”
“I know.”
“You let me ask whether you were eating protein.”
“I was eating protein.”
“You let me complain about physical therapy.”
“You complained very effectively.”
I stepped closer.
“You never told me you wished I'd let you die.”
He flinched.
Just slightly.
“I said there were days.”
“That is not better.”
“I know.”
“Do you still?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“How sure?”
“Elena.”
“How sure?”
May you like
He stared at me.
“Sure enough to get on crutches, put on a uniform I hate wearing with this brace, and come stop a doctor from wrecking your career.”
