Page 33 of Proof Of Life

“What’s this,” West asks, grabbing it up. He thumbs through the brochure as a myriad of expressions dance across his face.

“Beyond the Army Legion of Love Soldiers is an organization that helps guys like you. They help soldiers who’ve been discharged get back on the road to recovery.”

“Isn’t that what the VA does?”

“Sure, that’s what they say they do,” he smirks. “But the Legion of Love doesn’t clinch their asshole when they have to reach into their pockets to help the vets.”

“I don’t know, Riggs. Don’t I have everything I need? I’ve got the chair and the leg, and I guess I’ve got to continue with therapy. What can they do for me that the VA can’t?”

“Well, for starters, they can get you a decent chair.”

“What’s wrong with my chair?”

“It’s a piece of shit. Standard medical equipment. Have you ever tried to wheel your chair off the sidewalk or any paved surface? Try it and tell me what happens.”

“Okay, so a better quality chair. What else?”

“How about a new leg?”

“What’s wrong with my leg?” He asks, tapping his prosthetic knee. “That leg is a piece of shit, to tell you the truth, and you and I both know it. You can’t stand on that leg for more than three hours at a time without being in pain. The Legion of Love can get you a custom fitted prosthetic. They can get you a running blade. They can put you in clinical trials for your vertigo and your migraines.”

I grab the brochure from West and flip through the glossy pages. It was your typical propaganda, guys in wheelchairs with big smiles on their faces, women holding babies in their one good arm.

“But most importantly,” Riggs continues, “the Legion will give you a support group of men and women in the same boat.”

“Oh, yay, more therapy.”

“It’s not like that, West, I promise you. Look, I’m heading over there tomorrow. I volunteer there. Why don’t you meet me over there and I’ll give you a tour and show you around. Then you can decide for yourself if it’s something that feels like a good fit.”

West snatches the brochure back from my grasp and flips through it before settling on the cover. “BALLS? What kind of place names their organization BALLS?”

Riggs drops his head in his hand, and I can hear him trying to smother his laughter. “I agree, they could have done better. Just say you’ll meet me.”

“All right, I’ll check out your balls.”

“Jesus Christ,” Riggs mutters, “get out of my office, gentlemen. I’ve got work to do.”

Today is a bad day.

Some are better than others, but not today.

I’m struggling. It’s two o’clock in the afternoon and I still haven’t gotten out of bed. I can hear Brandt in the kitchen, banging pots and pans and muttering to himself. No doubt he’s pissed at me. Or maybe he’s just disappointed. I’ve done well the past few days, and he probably fooled himself into thinking it would stay that way.

His mistake. He should know better.

He has good and bad days too, he just hides it better than I do. Brandt is steady like a rock, whereas I’m a buoy bobbing in the ocean, dipping high and low in the turbulent waves.

The sound of his boots echoes down the hallway as he approaches my room, and I brace for a fight.

“Time to get u–” He halts beside my bed, and I know what he’s looking at. Rolling over, I groan as I stretch and sit up. “What’s this shit? What the fuck is this, West?”

“A ticket to the gun show,” I say in a flat voice, devoid of any emotion or nuance.

He sits on the edge of my bed and pinches the bridge of his nose. A frustrated sigh blows heavily from between his lips. “I’ll tell you what. You better start talking right now before I lose my shit.”

I clear my throat before speaking. “Take it all away. The guns, the knives, take everything and hide it from me.”

Brandt hangs his head, and I have to wonder what he’s thinking as he sits silently and contemplates his next move. Kindness and contact are the last things I’m expecting. He kicks off his boots and climbs over my leg to settle next to me in bed.

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