Prologue #2
Words have always given me trouble. On paper, my dyslexic mind jumbles them confusingly.
In speaking terms, I’ve always believed staying quiet is better.
I’ve never minded being the quiet one, not with a boisterous twin, talking enough for two, or in school when speaking up could’ve revealed my reading problem.
Pulling fire alarms to get out of class eventually said what I couldn’t—I needed help.
After struggling through high school, military life appealed to me. The only words I needed were the orders I had to follow, and not letting emotions get in the way made that easier. There’s need-to-know, and nothing else matters.
But I love this woman, and there are things she needs to know. More than that, she’s probably the only person on earth who might truly understand me. If I give her the chance, that is.
Silence settles between us—we’ve gotten good at those.
Once, we went over two hours without talking—a new record for her.
She’s always the one to break, as if her not talking prevents a rushing river from falling over a cliff when there’s nowhere else for the water to go.
Compared to Lena, I’m a verbal desert—words have to be extracted from deep underneath if found at all.
She’s grown accustomed to this about me.
At first, she’d carry our conversations like an overzealous waitress, refilling a water glass whenever it got the least bit low.
Now, she’s comfortable enough to let the glass sit. Comfortable enough to be silent.
“Let’s see if the fish are jumping,” she decides, pulling me away from the wooded trail to the back of the pond near her mom’s tree. The light blue sky, nearly matching her eyes, reflects in the water like a mirror. The water is perfectly still, which seems to disappoint her.
Lena, I need to tell you something. I think the words but don’t speak them.
It’s easy to blame my inability to communicate on my dyslexia, my childhood, or the military, and certainly, they’re all contributing factors. But they aren’t the primary cause. The day I truly went silent and got small is, ironically, what I need to share with her.
That day, I put on my tight and heavy armor, zipped it over my chest, and never took it off.
The one time I tried real vulnerability with someone other than my sister or my shrink ended badly, but it taught me a hard truth.
Most people prefer the armor. They prefer wounds hidden, difficulties undiscussed, and tears sucked in.
So, now that I’ve finally found someone I want to take off my armor for, someone who isn’t like that, the zipper is stuck.
Lena’s eyes catch mine, silently asking the same question she’s put to me hundreds of times. What are you thinking?
It’s been her go-to question since we started to ease me into conversations. She always wants more of me and, honored by that sweet sentiment, I vowed to always answer. To let those words chisel away at my rough exterior and bring us closer.
I imagine her saying them now, and it helps.
I motion to the swing hanging from her mom’s tree, and she sits.
With her back to me, I gently send her forward, releasing the words with her ascent. “I want to tell you how I was injured.”
The story emerges from me in choppy pieces that come together as roughly as the scars covering my chest. But I don’t care.
I don’t need eloquence, only to get it out.
I catch side views of her expression as she sails back into my arms—she keeps her eyes forward as if she knows it’s easier for me.
So is telling her like this—on a tree swing—something innocent and lovely softening what’s dark, dirty, and painful.
I describe that day in the Wardak province of Afghanistan as if I were reporting to my higher-ups.
Positions. Armaments. Bystanders. Cargo inventory.
Time of day. Estimated time of arrival. The names and ranks of those with me.
Jargon she surely doesn’t understand. Every fucking detail.
No half-assing. I see the village ahead and catch the worried eyes of a woman pulling her small child away from the building.
“Something’s wrong,” I said immediately before glass shattered against our Humvee and burst into flames. The diversion preceded the main event—a shrapnel-packed IED that ambushed our unit’s convoy, killing two and injuring seven.
I tell her about the god-awful ringing in my ears, how I couldn’t make sense of bullets flying by me when I couldn’t hear them.
I tell her about Sergeant Adam Ricks, dying next to me, and the young family he left behind.
I tell her my armor all but failed me, letting hot metal embed in my chest. How it burned. How I bled.
I tell her we barely made it out, and often, I wished I hadn’t.
Her boots find the ground then, resisting the force until the swing mostly stops. She pops off, filling my arms in an instant.
“Damn it, Ben. That belongs in the fire barrel. Never think it again. I mean it.” Her forceful, desperate words don’t match the delicacy of her fingers falling on my cheek and tracing my scar, but I savor both.
I don’t know what I expected from Lena, but her bypassing unwanted sympathy for anger and concern strengthens my love for her. It’s the reaction I didn’t know I needed—it’s her, honest as ever, loving me through the pain, now and in hindsight.
I wondered before, but no longer. This woman loves me.
“Our heads play mean tricks on us—I know,” she says. “And, yes, we’re all expendable and can’t control explosions or viruses or anything, really. But you belong here. With me.” She nibbles her bottom lip, making me desperate to kiss her. “I need you, Ben. You’re not expendable. Not to me.”
Her hurried confession inspires me to smile, my pent-up tension leaving with every word she says. I grip her waist, pulling her into me. Her hands rest on my chest, lightly tugging my shirt. She relaxes against me, fitting perfectly.
My relief is palpable, like it could liquefy, pour off me, and feed the roots underground. “I need you, too, Lena. I won’t think it again.”
“Just like that?” she asks, breathless.
“Not just, but yes.” I hold out my hand and mimic dropping the thought into our fire barrel, where she recently burned the remains of her past life—her mom’s medical bills, a stack of Garbage Pail Kids, including the one she said was her, Nervous Nellie, and most significantly, her wedding photos, which took beautiful courage, I thought.
Now, she laughs at my gesture, our private joke, and I hold her closer.
“You’re the best reason,” I say. “Every good and terrible thing we’ve been through makes strange sense now. That’s why I told you. I want you to know everything. No holding back.”
I mean it—I want only honesty between us.
But there’s more I could say. That day didn’t happen in a bubble—it set off a chain of events, costing me my hearing and my profession, wounding me physically and mentally, and stealing my ability to love and be loved.
Until now. That day also brought me here. To her. And for the first time, with Lena in my arms, I’m grateful. It’s like getting lost in the woods for seven years but finding a vast treasure before getting rescued.
A treasure I’ll do anything to protect.
So, I lock the rest away. Knowing the source of my injuries should be enough.
Not all wounds should be reopened for future examination, and omission isn’t the same as dishonesty.
I rezip my armor with her squeezed inside, determined to keep her safe.
To never taint my life with Lena with the one I left behind.
“No holding back,” she repeats before I kiss her.
Five Years Later
Rain gently taps the hood of my patrol car and pings objects that shouldn’t be outside—used plates and cups on a ragged picnic table, a ripped open case of Miller Lite, and a plastic bin of action figures. It’s a wonder there are toys.
Motherfuckers.
The scene unfolding around me is more solemn than most—it’s always like that when children are involved.
The CSI team works in relative silence. Officers speak into their two-way radios in hushed tones, requesting information about the occupants.
Another speaks on the phone to the rather ambitious Jehovah’s Witnesses, who requested a well-check at the residence after hearing noises inside but didn’t call until later when they decided the whimpering sounded more human-like than a dog, as they first thought.
The location feels remote, even though it’s in a large trailer park.
The property looks carved into the woods, like a hovel at the back end of the neighborhood, far enough from neighbors not to get much attention.
There are no signs of life except a naked doll sitting upright on the picnic table, occasionally saying, “Mommy,” in a drawn-out slur when anyone comes near it.
And, of course, the kid.
I finger my temples, feeling pained and nauseated.
Detective Ed Gentry has taken over; it’s an investigation now. We’ve had our differences, but although the guy’s an old-school asshole with no filter, he’s like a bulldog with cases like these. I have no doubt that he’ll apprehend the suspects forthwith and without leniency.
He approaches me now, hands fixed on his belt, flashing his gold badge. “Okay, lieutenant? You look a little green.”
“Fine.”
“Found our suspects tying one on at the Copper Penny downtown. Got ‘em in custody. The boy’s parents and uncle. All three occupy the house, so they’ll all go down for it. That and the meth they were using and selling,” he reports, glancing at his black notebook.
“Any other relatives to contact?” I ask.
“Nope. There’s no one else.”
“He’ll have to go into the system,” I sigh. “Call Olivia Jones. She’s good with kids like this. Have her meet him at the hospital.”
“Already done,” he says. “Go home, Wright. Your shift ended hours ago, and it’s a tough one. I got this. We’ll get the kid to the hospital and take good care of him.”