Page 93 of Walking Wounded

“No it’s not,” Luke whispered. “You’re hurt.”

Hal squeezed him back, and didn’t protest.

~*~

Luke had spent the night before and this morning cleaning his apartment stem-to-stern, but it still looked small, cramped, and dated. He experienced a flash of self-consciousness at the door, one that intensified when he let them in and Hal hobbled into his shoebox living room.

“It’s not much,” Luke said, wincing to himself. “Just the one bedroom, but Brooklyn rent, ya know? It’s–”

“It’s great,” Hal said. “Really.” He eased down onto the battered old sofa with a hiss. “You’ve got it all to yourself, and that’s a big deal.”

“Yeah.” He’d never been so glad not to have a roommate. “What can I get you? What do you need?”

Hal let his head fall back against the sofa. “Nothing.” From this angle, he looked like something Michelangelo had painted, the shadows of raindrops against the window sliding down his scabbed face.

Luke pulled a bottle of water and a Coke from the fridge, and went to sit beside him, setting both drinks down on the coffee table. “Just in case.” It came out a whisper, and he realized he was afraid. Afraid that Hal was hurt even worse than he looked; afraid this was a nightmare…or a dream; when he woke up, the phone call would be from Hal’s mother, telling him that Hal had…

Hal had rolled his head to the side and was staring at him, eyes an eerie seafoam in the underwater rain light. His throat moved as he swallowed. “What?” he asked, softly, voice full of gravel.

“Are you okay?”

Hal gestured to himself with his good hand, as if to sayI’m here, aren’t I?

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

Hal made a face and glanced up toward the ceiling. Let out a tired breath. “I don’t guess so?” It sounded like a question. And then, more sure: “No, I’m not. I’m sorry.”

Luke laid a careful hand on his upper arm, and that was when he realized the cast went all the way up to his shoulder. He swallowed down a spike of nausea and said, “What happened?” Then, thinking better of it: “You don’t have to tell–”

“Same thing that happens to everybody who gets discharged out of the sand box. A bomb.” He didn’t elaborate.

Luke squeezed his arm, the unyielding plaster that covered it. “I’m sorry.”

~*~

He let Hal have the bed, and spent the night tossing around on his own couch, sick to his stomach when he thought of Hal, his shuffling walk, the little wounds peppered across his face. Big, strong, indestructible, and spared death by a matter of inches.

The first few days were quiet. The rain closed them in, a heavy silver curtain beyond the windows. Hal was on heavy-duty prescription pain killers, and he slept a lot, and ate little. He disappeared into the bathroom for long minutes to “change bandages” on wounds he wouldn’t show to Luke. Luke went down to the corner bodega again and again, trying to tempt Hal with his old favorites: Hostess cupcakes, Kraft mac & cheese, turkey sandwiches piled high with Swiss and tomatoes. He tried to initiate movie marathons; told all their old stupid stories from school, trying to draw a grin out of the guy.

Saturday morning, he saw the burns.

Luke woke before dawn to the sound of more rain on the roof, and a full bladder. He stumbled to the bathroom without his glasses, not bothering to knock; pushed the door open and–

There stood Hal, in nothing but boxers, left leg braced up on the edge of the tub, wad of soiled bandages in his left hand. The outside of his leg was a mess of warped pink flesh, from the hem of his boxers all the way to the top of his foot.

Burns.

Significant burns.

Luke froze. He couldn’t move, or breathe, or think. Hal’s leg…hisleg…

“Shit,” Hal muttered, surging upright on his good leg. “Luke, just–”

Too late. Luke fled, reaching the kitchen trash can just in time to heave all the bile out of his stomach. When he stopped heaving, his legs gave out and he sat down hard on the linoleum, hands clasped together on the back of his clammy neck.

Hal found him there a few minutes later, limping in slowly, sweatpants hiding the damage once more. He pulled to a stop just in front of Luke, hand braced on the counter.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Luke choked out through a raw throat. When he lifted his head, Hal was a blurred mess in front of him, and not because he wasn’t wearing his glasses. He wiped at his eyes, blinking furiously. “How – how bad is it? Are you…”Crippled?

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