Page 56 of Cross My Heart

But I’m not listening.

I’m stuck on the bullet to the side.

“How did I get hurt?” I ask him numbly. “Who was there with me?”

“Milner—”

“Tell me,” I growl.

“Your squad was there,” he replies softly, with pity in his eyes. “Everyone is dead.”

“Everyone?” I gasp. “Is Jeremiah Michaels dead?”

“There’s no easy way?—”

“Fuck that!” I yell, and my side, my chest, and my back hurt. I grimace. “Tell me.”

“Yes.”

I nod, tears stinging my eyes.

“You’ll go back to the states on convalescent leave, your tour is over.”

“So that’s it?” My hands ball into fists, and I could deck him right now if I didn’t feel like someone ran me over. “I just go home?”

“Yes.” He nods with finality. “You’ll be off for six weeks. Then you can go back to rear detachment.”

I nod too. “I—I want to go to their services.”

“I’m afraid you won’t be able to,” he says grimly. “You’re going to be here under observation.”

“Fuck that,” I snap. “I need to be there.”

“Milner,” he says softly, trying to appease me. “You’ve suffered grave injuries. You could have been dead too. You almost did die.”

“IwishI were dead,” I tell him. “At least then I wouldn’t have to live like this.”

“You have to be really careful with your words.” He sighs. “I know you don’t mean it, but I don’t want to put you on suicide watch. One to one is no fun.”

As if I’m going to have any fun in here.

“I need some time alone,” I tell him. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but I need time.”

“As you wish,” the doctor replies. “Amanda, let’s give the man some space to process this.”

“Will I remember anything in time?” I ask him as he gets up from the stool. “Will my memories come back?”

“It’s hard to say.” My eyebrows rise as he says this, and he looks into my eyes as he delivers the grim news. “You might get them back over time. Or you may never remember again.”

And then they leave, shutting the door quietly with a click.

I’m going home. I’m going home to nothing, to no one. I’m going home to heal while everyone else is dead, and I feel guilty to even take a deep breath—no matter how much it hurts to do so. But maybe this is what I deserve, pain. For not doing better, for not protecting them, for not saving them. Now they’re in a plane, in caskets, on the way to the mainland, and I feel sick to my stomach that I won’t even get there in time to attend their funerals.

And the worst part?

I may never remember what happened.

And I don’t want that mercy.

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