his eye. He stopped inside and picked out a small arrangement of colorful flowers. Joe wouldn’t care—or notice—but he suspected Sherry would be there.
The room was much nicer than the old one had been. It was large, with faux cherry-wood paneling, a wide window overlooking the city, and a sofa that probably doubled as a bed. He studiously avoided the bleached white hospital bed in the center of everything, crowded with plastic piping and holding the unconscious body of his friend.
Sherry stood and greeted him with a tired smile and no surprise to mark the months that had passed. “Blake, how are you? Come in, come in.”
He handed the flowers to Sherry and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You look great. How’s the kiddo?”
“Don’t think I didn’t notice you deflecting. But thanks. Matt’s at school.”
“School? Jesus. Last time I saw him he was in diapers.”
She laughed, setting the flowers down by the window. “Preschool. They do colors and shapes and stuff, that’s all. Just twice a week. Gives me some time to breathe.”
“Of course you need a break. In fact, you should let me hire someone. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that before.”
“Blake, you’ve already done too much for us.”
“I haven’t been here in months.”
She rolled her eyes. “And who paid off the mortgage on our condo?”
“I got your thank-you note. That was sweet.” She’d signed her name at the bottom…and his. Joseph and Sherry Davis. Blake had gotten drunk and surfaced a week later with a mother of a hangover.
“Well, come on. You can talk to him. I’ll run and grab some coffee. You want something?”
“I’m good. Take your time.”
She flashed him a smile as she grabbed her purse. The door closed behind her.
Finally Blake allowed his gaze to find the center of the room. An accordion base and plastic rails. Thin white sheets. A drip from a clear bag to his vein, keeping him alive. Joe hadn’t wanted that. Blake had suggested that to Sherry when he’d visited her then. He thought she would have slapped him then if he hadn’t been wrapped three times around with bandages. So here they were.
He strolled to the side of the bed and sat down. Sherry would give him enough time. She may not always agree with what they wanted, but she understood them. Soldiers. Survivors. She was both as well.
“Hey, man.” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “It’s me. Blake.”
His chest felt tight. This was harder than he thought. Which was saying something, because he’d thought it would be pretty fucking hard.
The machinery beeped in the background. Unobtrusive, he supposed. He wondered if Joe could really hear anything. He wondered if the beeping was driving him insane.
Joe’s face was slimmer and clean shaven. It bore none of the bruises and marks that Blake remembered. No scars. Unlike Blake, his wounds were all inside. Irony had painted their lives with broad, cruel strokes.
Blake wasn’t much older, but he’d already gone through a couple tours. He was the corporal, team leader, and occasional mentor to the new kid. Joe had looked up to him like he was Indiana Jones, and without fully realizing it, Blake had eaten that shit up.
Then they’d gotten blown apart. Well, Blake’s face had gotten blown up mostly. He’d woken in a dank, dark prison, finding both himself and Joe tied down like animals.
Only then, the craziest fucking thing happened. Blake was the commanding officer. He knew way more valuable shit. He should have taken the brunt of the interrogation. He should have been the one tortured. Except he was out of his mind with pain from the burns, delirious and incoherent. So they’d focused all their attention on Joe. Young, guileless Joe.
They were rescued in two weeks. Just a blip on the radar. Two weeks, fourteen days, 336 hours of torture. On the official forms, it said there were two survivors. But only Blake had woken up, his face so ruined that his fiancée had walked
The room was much nicer than the old one had been. It was large, with faux cherry-wood paneling, a wide window overlooking the city, and a sofa that probably doubled as a bed. He studiously avoided the bleached white hospital bed in the center of everything, crowded with plastic piping and holding the unconscious body of his friend.
Sherry stood and greeted him with a tired smile and no surprise to mark the months that had passed. “Blake, how are you? Come in, come in.”
He handed the flowers to Sherry and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You look great. How’s the kiddo?”
“Don’t think I didn’t notice you deflecting. But thanks. Matt’s at school.”
“School? Jesus. Last time I saw him he was in diapers.”
She laughed, setting the flowers down by the window. “Preschool. They do colors and shapes and stuff, that’s all. Just twice a week. Gives me some time to breathe.”
“Of course you need a break. In fact, you should let me hire someone. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that before.”
“Blake, you’ve already done too much for us.”
“I haven’t been here in months.”
She rolled her eyes. “And who paid off the mortgage on our condo?”
“I got your thank-you note. That was sweet.” She’d signed her name at the bottom…and his. Joseph and Sherry Davis. Blake had gotten drunk and surfaced a week later with a mother of a hangover.
“Well, come on. You can talk to him. I’ll run and grab some coffee. You want something?”
“I’m good. Take your time.”
She flashed him a smile as she grabbed her purse. The door closed behind her.
Finally Blake allowed his gaze to find the center of the room. An accordion base and plastic rails. Thin white sheets. A drip from a clear bag to his vein, keeping him alive. Joe hadn’t wanted that. Blake had suggested that to Sherry when he’d visited her then. He thought she would have slapped him then if he hadn’t been wrapped three times around with bandages. So here they were.
He strolled to the side of the bed and sat down. Sherry would give him enough time. She may not always agree with what they wanted, but she understood them. Soldiers. Survivors. She was both as well.
“Hey, man.” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “It’s me. Blake.”
His chest felt tight. This was harder than he thought. Which was saying something, because he’d thought it would be pretty fucking hard.
The machinery beeped in the background. Unobtrusive, he supposed. He wondered if Joe could really hear anything. He wondered if the beeping was driving him insane.
Joe’s face was slimmer and clean shaven. It bore none of the bruises and marks that Blake remembered. No scars. Unlike Blake, his wounds were all inside. Irony had painted their lives with broad, cruel strokes.
Blake wasn’t much older, but he’d already gone through a couple tours. He was the corporal, team leader, and occasional mentor to the new kid. Joe had looked up to him like he was Indiana Jones, and without fully realizing it, Blake had eaten that shit up.
Then they’d gotten blown apart. Well, Blake’s face had gotten blown up mostly. He’d woken in a dank, dark prison, finding both himself and Joe tied down like animals.
Only then, the craziest fucking thing happened. Blake was the commanding officer. He knew way more valuable shit. He should have taken the brunt of the interrogation. He should have been the one tortured. Except he was out of his mind with pain from the burns, delirious and incoherent. So they’d focused all their attention on Joe. Young, guileless Joe.
They were rescued in two weeks. Just a blip on the radar. Two weeks, fourteen days, 336 hours of torture. On the official forms, it said there were two survivors. But only Blake had woken up, his face so ruined that his fiancée had walked
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