Whole Pieces by Ronie Kendig Page A

took in the bed—which he occupied—and his son kneeling. “What’s happening?”
    â€œJust wanted to say good-bye to an old friend.”
    â€œOld. I’m definitely old,” Hawk conceded. Then watched as more dialogue passed between him and his son before Thomas rose.
    â€œMy namesake is quite the man.”
    â€œYes, indeed.”
    â€œAlready a decorated war hero. And little Kate there . . .”
    â€œJust like her mother,” Hawk said, feeling the heat of tears but not caring.
    â€œSo you’re not afraid of dying?”
    Hawk sighed. “No. I’ve had a full, good life.” He sighed. “Thank you.”
    â€œDon’t thank me. You did this. You made the choices.”
    â€œBut I wouldn’t have had the choice if you didn’t give me the chance.”
    â€œYes, well, dying in peace is far better than the way you were checking out last time, don’t you agree?”
    â€œDefinitely. I can now die without any regrets.”
    After the grenade detonated and took Hawk’s legs with it, he’d spent two weeks in an induced coma before regaining consciousness. But this time around, even the loss of two limbs was not enough to destroy what was left of his life. He’d seized the chance to make things right with Ashley, legs or not.
    Of course he wasn’t sure she would still want him. Broken now. But he’d been broken for a long time. Angry. Contemptuous toward everyone and everything. At least, in the original time strain he had been.
    This time, grateful for the second chance he’d been given, he had found the courage to tell her he was sorry. He could still remember her rich-brown hair tumbling over her shoulder as she leaned close and sniffled. “You hardheaded soldier.” She touched his face. “I’m so glad you came back to me.”
    â€œBroken.”
    More tears rushed down her cheeks. “ You came back, Hawk. That’s all I care about.”
    â€œI . . .” He swallowed, feeling the parched desert of his throat. He cleared his throat, noticing the doctor slipping out of the room. “I . . . Ashley . . .”
    She eased onto the bed beside him. “I’m here, Hawk. I’m not going anywhere.”
    â€œC’mere.”
    Brows, perfectly arched, wrinkled as she bent in.
    â€œI love you, Ashley.”
    Her chin trembled. And he knew why. He’d never uttered those words the first time around. Wanted better things, better times, better options. And then he spent thirty-two years hating himself. Hating the world. Hating Ashley for being so perfect, so true. Hating himself for not living up to her expectations.
    Hawk remembered how he had cupped her face. Tugged her closer. “You deserve better, but I am glad you will put up with me.” He pressed his lips to hers, savoring the sweet changes of life. And he had savored them ever since.
    No, he hadn’t been able to save the lives of all of his unit. But there was one notable exception: Stratham had lived. He had a hideous scar on his neck, but he had his life back.
    â€œHe looks like another seven-year-old you once knew.”
    Hawk blinked, jerked back to the present. He looked in the direction Constant nodded. “Brian.” His grandson. “He’s six.” Abda had been seven. “Hey—whatever happened to him?”
    â€œAlive. Very strong. Talks about being patient instead of a warrior, yet he is a warrior.” Constant shrugged. “Of sorts.” A strange smile overtook the normally stiff and stoic face.
    Patient . . . not a warrior. . . . Did that have anything to do with what Hawk had whispered into that MP3 player decades past? He locked gazes with Constant. “So he lived. But I don’t get it. Everything went wrong. The kid told his parents. The fighters came after us.”
    â€œIn fact, the boy did not tell his