Chapter 14 Rehabilitation
REHABILITATION
Fort Liberty, North Carolina Three Weeks After Mosul
Bulldog was waiting in the parking lot, leaning against his truck with two cups of coffee.
He handed one to Logan without comment. They'd fallen into this routine over the last two weeks.
Bulldog showed up. Logan didn't complain about needing a ride.
They drove to the medical center in comfortable silence and pretended this was normal.
"How'd you sleep?" Bulldog asked as they pulled out.
"Fine."
"Liar."
Logan didn't argue. The nightmares had started four days after they'd brought him back.
Waking up in the middle of the night convinced he was still in that cell.
Still zip-tied to a chair. Still listening to Nazari's voice promising that the Syrians were coming.
The therapist said it was normal. Said it would fade with time and treatment.
Logan wanted to believe her but three weeks in and the dreams were getting worse, not better.
Last night he'd dreamed about the rescue.
About Mara coming through that door. Except in the dream she'd looked at him and turned around.
Left him there. Walked away while he screamed for her to come back.
He'd woken up at 0300 drenched in sweat, his heart pounding, and hadn't been able to fall back asleep.
"You talk to the doc about it?" Bulldog asked.
"Yeah."
"And?"
"And she said it's normal. PTSD. My brain processing trauma. All the clinical explanations that don't make it easier to sleep."
Bulldog was quiet for a moment. "You know it wasn't real, right? The dreams. Mara came back. She got you out. You're here because of her."
"I know." Logan took a drink of coffee. "Doesn't stop my brain from playing what-if scenarios while I'm asleep."
They pulled into the medical center parking lot. The physical therapy wing was in the east building, third floor. Logan had memorized the route. Had walked it so many times in the last two weeks that he could do it in his sleep. Which was ironic considering how little sleep he was actually getting.
The PT room was already occupied when they arrived.
Three other soldiers working through their own rehabilitation.
A leg amputee on the parallel bars learning to walk with a prosthetic.
A guy with a shoulder injury doing resistance training.
A woman with a back brace working on core strength.
All of them dealing with damage that would take months to fix.
All of them pushing through pain because that's what soldiers did.
Logan's physical therapist was a captain named Martinez.
Mid-thirties. Former infantry. She knew what it took to get back to operational status because she'd done it herself after an IED in Afghanistan had shattered her femur.
She didn't accept excuses and she didn't let him quit when the pain got bad.
Logan respected the hell out of her even when he wanted to tell her to back off.
"Morning, Reed," she said, looking up from her clipboard. "How's the pain level today?"
"Manageable."
"On a scale of one to ten."
"Six." It was closer to seven but admitting that meant she'd dial back the intensity and he didn't want that. He wanted to push. Wanted to get back to full strength as fast as possible.
Martinez gave him a look that said she knew he was lying but didn't call him on it. "Alright. Let's start with range of motion on the leg. Then we'll work the arm. I want to see if we can get more flexibility in that shoulder."
The next hour was grinding work. Stretching the leg until the rebuilt muscle screamed in protest. Working the arm through exercises that made the bone ache where it was healing.
Pushing past the point where his body wanted to quit because quitting meant staying broken and broken meant not getting back to the team.
Martinez watched him like a hawk, correcting form, adjusting resistance, making sure he didn't push so hard he caused new damage. "You're favoring the ribs. That's going to create compensation patterns that'll cause problems down the line."
"Ribs hurt when I breathe deep."
"So we work on breathing exercises. Expand the lung capacity. Strengthen the intercostals." She handed him a resistance band. "Twenty reps. Slow and controlled. Focus on the exhale."
Logan did the reps. Each breath sending small lances of pain through his chest. Each exhale a reminder that his body wasn't ready yet. Wasn't strong enough. Wasn't back to the standard he needed to be operational.
"Better," Martinez said when he finished. "You're making progress. Not as fast as you want but that's normal. Bone takes time to heal. You rush it, you end up with permanent damage. You play it smart, you get back to full strength."
"How long?"
"Until you're cleared for operations? Three months minimum. Maybe four depending on how the arm heals." She made a note on her clipboard. "I know that's not what you want to hear. But it's reality. You push too hard, too fast, you'll set yourself back. Maybe permanently."
Three to four months. Logan had heard that timeline before. Had accepted it intellectually. But hearing it again felt like a gut punch. Three to four months of watching his team operate without him. Of sitting on the sidelines while they deployed. Of being useless.
"I can handle four months," he said.
"You can if you're smart about it. That means following the program. Doing the exercises. Getting enough sleep." Martinez gave him a pointed look. "Are you sleeping?"
"Some."
"How much is some?"
"Four hours. Maybe five."
"That's not enough. Your body heals when you sleep. You're not giving it the time it needs to repair." She crossed her arms. "Are you talking to the therapist about the insomnia?"
"Yeah."
"And?"
"And she gave me some techniques. Breathing exercises. Meditation. Said I should try them before resorting to sleep meds."
"Are you trying them?"
Logan didn't answer. Because the truth was he'd tried them twice and given up when they didn't work immediately.
Meditation required sitting still and when he sat still his mind went to places he didn't want it to go.
Back to the cell. Back to Nazari's voice.
Back to the certainty that nobody was coming.
"Try harder," Martinez said. "Sleep is part of the recovery protocol. You can't heal without it."
She put him through another thirty minutes of exercises. Leg strengthening. Arm mobility. Core stabilization. Each movement carefully monitored. Each rep counted. By the time she called it, Logan was drenched in sweat and his whole body was shaking from exertion.
"Good session," Martinez said. "You're getting stronger. I can see the improvement week over week. Just don't get ahead of yourself."
Bulldog was waiting in the lobby when Logan finished. He took one look at Logan's face and handed him a protein bar without comment. They walked back to the truck in silence.
"You look like hell," Bulldog said once they were driving.
"Feel worse."
"PT kicking your ass?"
"PT's fine. It's everything else." Logan leaned his head back against the seat. "Can't sleep. Can't focus. Every time I close my eyes I'm back in that cell or I'm watching Mara walk away. It's exhausting."
"You talk to the doc about it?"
"Yeah. She wants me to meditate."
Bulldog snorted. "You? Meditate? That'll last about five seconds."
"That's what I figured."
They drove in silence for a few minutes. Then Bulldog said, "You sent that message yet? To Mara?"
Logan had been expecting the question. Bulldog had been pushing him for a week to reach out. To make contact. To stop thinking about it and actually do something. "Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know what to say. 'Hey, remember me? The guy you pulled out of a cell three weeks ago? Want to grab coffee?'" Logan shook his head. "She's probably moved on. Got back to her life. Doesn't need some broken Delta operator showing up with baggage."
"Or she's sitting in Louisiana wondering if you meant what you said. If you're actually going to find her or if it was just talk." Bulldog pulled into the barracks parking lot. "You told her you'd find her. That you'd buy her that beer. Either you meant it or you didn't. Which is it?"
"I meant it."
"Then stop making excuses and send the damn message."
Logan sat in the truck after Bulldog left, staring at his phone.
He had Ghost's number pulled up. Could send a text right now asking him to reach out to Beth.
To pass a message through Quinn. Could keep the promise he'd made at that rally point when Mara's hand had been in his and everything had felt possible.
But what if she didn't respond? What if she'd moved on? What if the connection he'd felt had been one-sided? The rejection would hurt worse than anything Nazari's men had done.
He put the phone away and headed inside.
Mandatory therapy was at 1400 hours. Logan had been dreading it all morning. The therapist, a civilian contractor named Dr. Sarah Chen, had the annoying habit of seeing through his deflections and asking questions he didn't want to answer. She was good at her job. Which made her dangerous.
Her office was on the second floor of the mental health building. Comfortable furniture. Neutral colors. The kind of space designed to make you forget you were being evaluated. Logan sat in the chair across from her desk and waited.
"How are you feeling today, Logan?" Dr. Chen asked, settling into her own chair with a notepad.
"Fine."
"On a scale of one to ten, where would you rate your overall mood?"
"Seven." It was closer to five but seven sounded better.
She made a note. "How's your sleep?"
"Getting better." Lie.
"How many hours are you averaging per night?"
"Five or six." Another lie.
Dr. Chen looked at him over her glasses. "Your PT reported that you told her four hours. Which is it?"
Logan's jaw tightened. "Four."
"And the quality of that sleep?"
"Not great."
"Nightmares?"
"Yeah."