The Turnaround by George Pelecanos

the time from the touch of the sun.
    “YOU SAW him,” said Sergeant Major O’Toole, looking at Raymond Monroe. “You were out there after First Formation.”
    “When I saw y’all, his friends were around.”
    “They left us after you went away. Private Collins told me he needed to talk to me alone.”
    “What did he say?” said Kendall Robertson.
    “He’s ready to do it,” said O’Toole.
    They were seated in Kendall’s cramped office in building 2 of the main hospital. Kendall, an inpatient therapist for wounded soldiers and their families, had been visiting with Monroe when O’Toole knocked on her door. The three of them nearly filled the space. Around them, along with her desk, computer, and files, sat boxes of chocolates and plastic-wrapped flowers, stuffed animals holding miniature American flags, and other gifts of a similar feel-good, patriotic nature. Kendall delivered them on her rounds.
    “What changed his mind?” said Kendall.
    “I think just, you know, seeing the progress made by his friends,” said O’Toole. “They’re walking now. Shoot, some of them are running. He sees his buddies joking and smoking, and he’s thinking, I need to get on with my life and get some prosthetics.”
    “Is he certain?” said Kendall.
    “He’s as close as you can get to it,” said O’Toole.
    “Voluntary amputation is a complex decision. It’s one thing to have it done out of necessity, postinjury. But to say, I want you to remove my legs . . .”
    “It’s not that simple on the logistical side, either. He’s got to make his request formally to a group of doctors and officers. It’s almost like a hearing. I mean, it takes a while for the procedure to be approved. I’d hate to see Private Collins change his mind again while all the red tape is being sorted out.”
    “I’ll get the ball rolling,” said Kendall, “if that’s what he wants. I’m due to see him today on my rounds.”
    “Thank you, Miss Robertson.”
    Kendall nodded. “Sergeant Major.”
    O’Toole left the office. When the door closed, Monroe raised his eyebrows at Kendall, who smiled.
    “Yeah, I know,” said Kendall. “When is it going to be an easy day around here?”
    Monroe got out of his chair. Kendall stood and walked into his arms.
    “You’re doin good, baby.”
    “That’s what they tell me.”
    “I guess I’m having lunch by myself today.”
    “Looks like it. I want to get started on this Collins thing.”
    He kissed her softly. They enjoyed a long embrace in the quiet of the room.
    ALEX PAPPAS had secured a visitor’s pass through the AW2 offices so he could get through the security gates of Walter Reed without undue hassle. Because he was making quick deliveries, he usually parked his Jeep on the grass near the Fisher Houses, estate-sized brick homes that functioned as hotels where parents, siblings, girl- and boyfriends, and spouses stayed near wounded soldiers during their treatment and recovery.
    Alex retrieved his desserts, neatly arranged in a large fold-up box, and carried them around the back of Fisher House II, where wrought iron tables were set up on a patio, a quiet outdoor spot where soldiers and family could find some peace, smoke cigarettes, or talk on their cells. A rear door led to an extralarge state-of-the-art kitchen shared by the residents. Food was made available here at all hours, often in elaborate spreads.
    “Hello, Peggy,” said Alex to a woman who had just cleared a granite countertop and was now wiping it down. Peggy Stawinski, a middle-aged blonde, had a son who was currently serving in Afghanistan. She volunteered her time in both Fisher Houses, as well as the Mologne House, an older, more elegant structure that also served as a hotel.
    “Hey, Alex. You can put that stuff down right here.”
    Alex set the box on the counter and pulled its contents. “Got a few things today. It all came in this morning, so it’s fresh.”
    “What’s that?” said Peggy, pointing to half a cake