32. Mia
Chapter Thirty-Two
Mia
This morning feels different.
Enough that when I walk into George's room carrying coffee and a stale blueberry muffin, he isn't asleep. He's sitting up. Like actually sitting up. Not half-conscious. Not drifting in and out. Not fighting through whatever cocktail of medication they've been pumping into him.
His eyes find me immediately, and then they soften. I don't think he realizes he does that. I don't think he knows how much it affects me. “Morning, Sergeant Hale,” I say.
His voice is still rough around the edges when he answers. “Morning, Mia.”
“You look better today.”
He glances down at himself. “That's a lie.”
“You do look better… than yesterday.” He winks at me, and we both laugh.
For the first time since he’s been awake, breakfast arrives, and George actually eats it. It’s progress, and I’m all for it. By the afternoon, he's sitting in the chair by the window. By evening, he's arguing with a nurse about whether he needs help getting back into bed.
Progress.
Definitely progress.
We spent that night talking and watching some lame game TV show until we both fell asleep.
Today is day three of him being fully awake and functional, and he is taking his first walk. It’s hard and incredible at the same time. But also, very painful to watch. The physical therapist stands on one side, and I’m on the other.
George looks deeply offended by this entire situation. “I hate all of you.”
The therapist smiles. “You've said that four times, Hale.”
“Oh, and I mean it every time.” He says, rolling his eyes at her as he takes another step.
“One more lap.” She says, pushing him a little.
“You're a terrible person.”
I bite back a laugh.
The walk isn't far. It’s just one hallway.
Then we go to the next one, then back to the room.
But I get why he gets so upset. This shit is hard.
By the time we're done, sweat beads along George's forehead and his breathing is heavier than he'd ever admit. Still. He did it, and when we get back to the room, something shifts in him. Something hopeful. Like he can finally see the finish line, even though we’re just getting started.
Today marks a week of him waking up, and the doctors are starting to talk about a possible and soon discharge. He’s not going home yet, but we’re getting closer to that. Close enough that George starts asking questions, and we can finally see his future become more than just a possibility.
Close enough that I start feeling something ugly in my stomach.
Fear.
Not because he's recovering. I’m so happy he is, but eventually he won't need me. I don't want to tell him that. I don't want to tell anyone. I just smile, celebrate, help him walk, and pretend my chest doesn’t tighten every time a doctor says the word “discharge”.
We’ll be moving to a rehab facility in a couple of days. He seems excited about it, so I let myself get a little bit excited too.
I take a quick moment to text Lyann and my mom some updates. They’ve been asking for a couple of days, but there was nothing to tell them. Not really. Until now.
Me: They are discharging him into a rehab facility. He’s going to be okay! I’ll call you later and tell you more. Love you, Mom.
Mom: Oh honey! I’m so glad to hear that. We’ll talk later. Be safe.
Okay, that’s done.
Me: Hey, we’re moving to a rehab facility. Things are not what he wanted, but what we expected. Can’t talk much right now. Will call later.
Lyann: Ugh, I can’t imagine, babe. It’s okay, just text me when you can.
The military rehabilitation facility isn't what I expected.
It's cleaner, quieter, and it feels less like a hospital and more like a temporary home. There are a couple of gardens and some common spaces. The hallways are wide, and the bedrooms are more like small suites. The physical therapy areas are insanely organized, and with equipment I didn’t even see at the hospital.
People recovering from things nobody should have to survive in the first place. Some are missing limbs, some have big scars. And I’m sure that some are carrying things you can't see at all.
The first few days here have taught me something. George Hale is an unbelievably stubborn man. The first time he tries to shower by himself, I find him in the middle of the room, with his clothes still on, looking furious, and wet. Completely wet.
“What happened, George?”
He glares. “The shower attacked me.”
I stare. “The shower attacked you?”
“Yes.”
“A stationary object attacked you.” I try to mock him a little.
“It knows what it did.”
I laugh so hard I have to sit down. That somehow makes him even grumpier. Eventually, I help him take a shower, which he hates, of course.
Because needing help and vulnerability make him uncomfortable.
And because somewhere along the way, he learned that struggling alone was preferable to being cared for.
But I help anyway, in small ways, so I don’t make him more uncomfortable than he needs to be.
I hand him towels or steady him when he gets dizzy.
I also pretend not to notice when frustration flashes across his face.
And slowly, very slowly… he stops apologizing for needing me.
But I have to say that nights are harder.
The days are filled with progress, goals reached, therapy, doctor appointments, and movement. Nights, on the other hand, are quiet and leave room for memory. The first few nights weren’t that bad. But the fourth one…
The fourth one was hell.
I woke to the sound of something crashing, and for half a second, I was disoriented. Then I heard George. He wasn’t speaking, just breathing wrong.
I sat up immediately.
The room is dark except for the moonlight coming through the window. George is standing. Or trying to. One hand braced against the wall. The other clenched into a fist. His entire body rigid.
“George.” No response.
My pulse spikes as I slowly get off the bed. “George,” I repeat, and nothing.
Then— “I said, get down.”
The words come out low. They were not directed at me, but they freeze me anyway. His breathing is ragged. His eyes aren't seeing this room. They're somewhere else.
My chest hurts so much. “George.”
His hand slams into the wall so hard that the sound echoes around the room. And for one terrible second, I see how scared he is. He’s not angry. He’s terrified. The realization changes everything, so I move closer. Very slowly. “George.”
His head jerks, and finally, his eyes find me. But they don't recognize me. Not yet.
“Mia?” he says.
Except it isn't a question. It's confusion, maybe disbelief. Fear.
“I'm here.”
The words shake him this time. I keep moving closer. One step. Then another. Until I'm standing right in front of him. His entire body is trembling. The strong soldier. The stubborn patient. The man who jokes through pain. Gone. This version is just scared. And lost.
“Hey, look at me.”
His eyes fight to focus, so I repeat myself, “Look at me.” Then slowly, and painfully, they do. “There you are.” His chest heaves. The room stays silent except for his breathing and mine.
“I'm here,” I say that to him again and again. Until the words stop sounding like reassurance and start sounding like truth. His shoulders begin to shake. Not from anger or from rage, but from exhaustion. From carrying too much for too long.
I reach for him. Carefully. Giving him every chance to pull away. He doesn't. The second my hands touch him, something breaks inside of him. His forehead drops to my shoulder. And for a long time, neither of us said anything. I just hold him until he eventually comes back and whispers. “I’m sorry.”
The words are so soft they almost disappear. I close my eyes. “Hey, no. No apologizing.”
His shoulders tense. “Mia—”
“I said no.” I need him to hear this. I need him to understand it. “You don't have to apologize for surviving.” The room goes completely still. George doesn't move, nor do I. And after a long moment, I feel his arms wrap around me.
When George finally falls asleep again that night, his hand wrapped around mine and his breathing finally steady, I know one thing for certain.
Whatever happens next, I’m not leaving him.
Ever.