Page 37 of Defending What is Mine

Chapter Eighteen

Jack:Present—Late January

The muffled sound of conversation outside my door pulls me from sleep. When my heavy eyes open, they’re greeted by the first hints of sunrise showing through the windows. For a moment, I’m sixteen again and back at the ranch, hustling through morning chores, trying my best to make sure I leave enough time for breakfast before school.

How many times did I stand on the porch in awe of the symphony of colors splashed across the morning sky? A comforting reminder of better times to help me forget the hell of my current situation—if only briefly.

Still groggy, I strain to listen in on the conversation. I can’t make out what’s being said, but the tone sounds upbeat and pleasant. Minutes slowly tick by before the handle finally turns and the door pushes open. A tall, slender man enters the room, never looking up from the chart in his hands as he walks to the edge of the bed.

“Morning,” I say as I attempt to push myself up, only to slide back down in groans of agony.

“Ahh, Captain Wilde, you’re awake.” The doctor finally looks up from the chart. “Then it’s a good morning indeed. I would advise that you not move around so much. If you’re uncomfortable, just press the call button and someone will be in to help you.” He walks around to the side of the bed and studies my vitals on the monitor. “I can’t tell you how pleased I was when I learned you’d come back to us. Tell me, how are you feeling?”

“I hurt.” And I’m tired of not knowing what happened to me. Or when I can leave. And I’m worried about my family. About Jonesy. About Sam. Her name beats through my mind in time with my heart…and the incessant beeping of the IV stand.

The doctor nods, his gaze dropping back to the chart in his hands. “I am sorry to hear that, but considering the extent of your injuries, that’s to be expected. Is there anything, in particular, that’s giving you trouble?”

“My leg. The right one. No matter what I do, it just throbs. Constantly.”

The doctor doesn’t pull back the sheet to examine me, he doesn’t even bother to glance up, he just bobs his head and quickly jots something down.

“The nurse…she couldn’t tell me what happened.” Another groan slips out as the pain in my leg amplifies. “I’m going crazy here, not knowing.”

The man’s eyebrows raise as he finishes with his note. Without saying a word, he glances around the room, then walks to a chair in the corner with a blanket draped across the back and slides it over to the side of my bed. When he’s happy with its position, he lays the chart down and sits. “Why don’t we start with what you remember?”

“Not much,” I say, trying to clear away the ever-present scratch in my throat. “It was early. Early enough that it was still dark. We were taking fire. The entire base I mean…” I swallow hard. “I had people in the field…trying to get back.”

“Do you remember rushing to the aide of an injured soldier?”

I nod. “Private Jones. Is he here? How’s he doing? Can I see him?”

The doctor sits up in the chair and awkwardly clears his throat. “Do you remember anything from your time with casualty combat care?”

I shake my head.

“Captain, I’m sorry to have to inform you…I truly am—especially considering your service and the bravery in that incident. But you see…your leg was very severely wounded in the blast.”

Blast? What blast? Inform me of what?

“I spent some time as a field surgeon, myself. And I can assure you, if there had been any other option…”

“Another option? What are you talking about?” My head throbs and my anxiety spikes. What happened to the confidence he had when he came in?And why is he nervous all of a sudden? I struggle to catch a breath.

“I’m very sorry, Captain Wilde. There was no other choice but to amputate.” He breaks eye contact as he says the word, choosing to stare at my leg instead. “Again, I assure you if there had been even a chance. Any chance at all…”

Deep down I know my body isn’t moving. I know I’m still lying in a damned hospital bed. But hearing that word hits me. Hard. It’s like my consciousness leaves my body and drifts up to the ceiling. I sort of hover there, staring down at the room, watching as the doctor tries his best to sound confident and reassuring. All the while failing at both.

Amputate?The word is too surreal to even process. I didn’t lose my leg. I couldn’t. I’m career military. I’m in a goddamned combat role. That’s simply not possible. It would mean the end of everything I’ve worked so hard for.

“Sir, I know this is a lot to process. I should tell you we have a very competent group of psychologists on staff. In situations like this, many of my patients have found talking helps. Sometimes a lot.” He pauses briefly—presumably to allow me the chance to ask questions.

I continue watching myself lie there, motionless. I have nothing to say. Nothing to ask. I have nothing…

Nervously, he continues, “And for what it’s worth, many soldiers with amputations go on to live full and productive lives. Fitted with the right prosthetic, you could still run marathons, play sports…and the research into prosthetics will only continue to improve.”

Finally, it hits me. This isn’t real. It can’t be.

What a sick fucking joke. Why is he doing this?

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