Page 47 of Warrior's Walk

I park my car in the full lot and before we get out, Mandy folds his hands in his lap and bows his head.Is he praying?After a minute of silence, he looks up and gives me a little smile.

“Just something I do every time I come here. I ask for strength and courage, and I ask for acceptance that no matter what the outcome of the procedure, that it’s enough for me, that I’m happy with the results.” He grabs for the door handle and then stops. “Oh, and I ask that they don’t remove the wrong body part by accident.”

I smack his shoulder. “Get the fuck outta here.”

“I’m serious. You wouldn’t believe how many articles I read like that.”

“You have no business reading medical journals and articles about amputating the wrong limbs or organs. Not with your medical anxiety.”

He just shrugs and climbs out of the car. Tucked under his arm is a thick-ass manila folder. I’m betting it’s his medical records, and judging by the thickness of the file, he knows this place like the back of his hand. I follow him inside to the reception desk, where he checks in, and then we’re told to wait. We take a seat in the waiting room that’s packed wall-to-wall with other vets. Apparently, waiting is a thing here.

We don’t have to wait long before the entertainment arrives.

“Oh good, I’m not too late,” West huffs, jogging up to us.

“I thought you couldn’t make it,” Mandy says, looking up with surprise.

“I was getting fitted for a new prosthetic, but they didn’t make me wait long to be seen, unlike this fucking place,” he complains, looking around the packed room.

“Oh, but I loved the old one. It had the painted toenails.”

West sticks his middle finger right in Mandy’s face. “I was due for a pedicure. I think I’ll go with purple this time.” West stands directly in front of the man sitting to Mandy’s left and lifts his pant leg, shamelessly exploiting his prosthetic leg until the man feels honor bound to give up his chair. “Thanks for your service,” West says, clapping him on the shoulder. He snatches up his seat in a heartbeat.

I’m a little disappointed he showed up. Not that I’m in the market to make new best friends, but I was enjoying getting to know Mandy a little better. He’s actually a great guy, but so is West. He pulls out aMad Libspad from his backpack and Mandy shakes his head, chuckling.

“What?” West asks. “You love these. Give me a synonym for big.”

“Ginormous,” Mandy answers.

“Oh, that’s a good one.” He writes it down. “Rhett, what rhymes with art?”

“Cart, dart, heart, fart, and start.”

“That’ll work perfectly,” he says with a smirk. “A verb that starts with G.”

“Grinding,” I answer at the same time Mandy says, “Gloating.”

“I’ll take them both,” West says. “All I need is the name of a fruit.”

“Avocado,” I supply.

“Avocados are fruits?” West asks.

I answer with a shrug. “I read that somewhere.”

“Well, aren’t you a smarty-pants?” he says sarcastically.

“Just one of my many good qualities,” I tease back.

He reaches into his backpack again and pulls out a stack of flyers. “Here,” he says to Mandy. “Pass these around while I work on this story.”

Mandy passes the stack to me, and I read the flyer on top. ‘Squeeze your BALLS for all you can,’” it reads before listing some of the many services provided by BALLS. These are the ones Margaret Anne hands out at the front desk to new visitors.

“Here, pass these around,” I tell the guy next to me.

I think it’s great how these guys volunteer to represent BALLS just because the organization has given them so much. I hope I can say the same for myself after I see what they can do for me.

I watch as the stack gets passed around; some people fold it up and put it in their pocket or purse, and some crumble it in their fist and toss it under their chairs. I get it. Not everyone wants the help or feels like they need it, but I bet every single one of these fuckers could use it.

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