Page 31 of Interference

Wyatt gave a sharp sniff of bitter amusement. “In theory, yeah.”

I cocked a brow. “In theory?”

The sigh and the way his shoulders dropped spoke of frustration, anger, and resignation. “I get thirty percent disability from the VA. Which isn’t much. Especially not in Seattle.”

“Thirty percent? With combat PTSD and after you lost your leg? Do I even want to know what it takes to get a hundred percent?”

“In hindsight?” He laughed, the sound quiet and caustic. “Getting it amputated before being discharged.”

I blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded and took another bite of his eggs. After a sip of coffee, he went on. “The short version is that I injured it on active duty—broke my ankle three places—and it never healed properly. All the shit you’ve heard about military medical? How it’s awful?” He nodded sharply. “It’s true. I mean, there are some military doctors who are fantastic, and some of the bases have excellent facilities. But others? Not so much.”

I inclined my head. “They neglected it to the point it had to be amputated?”

“In a nutshell, yeah. The surgeon—I don’t remember exactly what the issue was, but my civilian orthopedist said the guy made a mess of it. And it was an even bigger mess because after I’d been declared fit for duty, I had to keep running on it, which—”

“Wait, wait—running? Like literally running?”

Wyatt laughed dryly. “That’s half of being in the military. Running, running, and more running.”

“Fuck,” I whispered. “I had trouble skating after a sprained ankle healed, and that’s a lot lower impact than running. I can’t imagine running on a badly healed broken ankle.”

“I don’t recommend it,” he muttered. “I kept going to medical, but they just gave me Motrin and sent me back out.”

“Whoa. That’s… I’m not surprised it didn’t heal.”

“Right? And the thing is, it was almost five years from the initial injury until my civilian doctors said it was so far gone, amputation was the best way to go. Plus I’d reinjured it during that time. I’ve got reams of letters from my doctors saying the second injury wouldn’t have been nearly as catastrophic without the preexisting one, especially if the first had been treated properly from the start. From what they told me, it was honestly a miracle my ankle lasted as long as it did.”

I shivered. “And they just kept making you run on it and live like that?”

Wyatt nodded. “So it was just getting worse and worse, and the pain was—it was bad. The amputation actually gave me back my quality of life. But then trying to fight about it with the VA…” He sighed heavily. “At one point they even tried to say I shouldn’t get disability at all for the damaged ankle because of the amputation.”

My jaw fell open. “What? How does that work?”

“Because the service-related injury was in my ankle. Now that I don’t have the ankle, I don’t have the injury either.”

“But… that injury was the reason for the amputation.”

“No, the later injury was the reason for the amputation.” He rolled his eyes. “So the amputation wasn’t service-related.”

“Holy shit,” I whispered.

“Yeah. So we’re still fighting it. Thank God I found a lawyer who’s willing to work pro bono for veterans, or I’d be firmly up Shit Creek.”

“Wow. That’s… I mean, I’d heard that veterans got screwed over a lot, but that’s…” There weren’t words for it, that was for sure. “That’s insane.”

“It is.” He looked down at Lily, who was sitting dutifully by his chair. “I’m lucky I was able to get her.” He stroked over her head. “The VA tried to push back on my claim for PTSD, too, and I couldn’t get the dog until I had the rating from the VA.” He exhaled. “Fortunately, I found an organization that would accept a civilian therapist’s diagnosis, especially if a claim with the VA is still pending, and they don’t charge veterans for dogs.”

“Thank God for that,” I murmured.

“Right? Especially since my VA rating wouldn’t have qualified me for a dog because they only rated me for thirty percent.” He rolled his eyes. “My therapist was furious because she insisted I should have at least fifty percent, but I didn’t want to fight it. I thought my leg would get me to the full hundred percent anyway, so there was no point in fighting.”

“So you got fucked over your leg and your PTSD.”

Wyatt nodded. “And I could probably still go back and fight for that part, but…” His gaze turned distant as he shook his head slowly. “The process is so…”

Silence held for a moment. Then Lily got up and put her front paws in his lap. Just like she had that first night in the vet clinic, she leaned hard against him, pressing her head against his midsection.

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