Page 2 of No Greater Love
"You did what you could," Miller said, his voice distant, mechanical. "You couldn't have saved them."
But I could have. I could have at least tried. I should have been the one to go. I knew trauma medicine. I might have stemmed the bleeding, bought precious minutes...
Instead, I had survived.
* * *
I jerked awake with a gasp, my hands clutching at sheets soaked with sweat. The bedroom was dark except for the soft glow of the digital clock: 0417. The nightmare had come earlier than usual tonight.
My hand trembled as I reached for the water glass by the bed, muscle memory from twenty years ago still sending signals to reach for a weapon that wasn't there. I drained the glass in three gulps, then swung my legs over the side of the bed, letting the cool floor ground me in the present.
Breathe in. Four count. Hold. Four count. Release. Four count.
The trembling subsided gradually. Twenty years since Fallujah, and still my body remembered. Still my hands wouldn't stay steady after these dreams.
Sleep was done for the night. I moved through the darkness of the house with practiced efficiency, pausing only to crack open Paige's door. The soft glow of her astronomy nightlight illuminated her sleeping form, one arm flung dramatically across the pillow, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest a silent reassurance.
Safe. My daughter was safe.
In the kitchen, I started the coffee maker—prepped the night before, always—and checked my watch. Too early for a run, but plenty of time to review Paige's science homework and prep lunches.
By 0545, the house was filled with the smell of coffee and toasting bread. Paige's lunch was packed, her backpack double-checked, the day's weather forecast consulted and appropriate outerwear laid out.
"Dad?" Paige appeared in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, squinting against the kitchen light. "Why are you always up so early?"
I smiled, folding down the top of her lunch bag with precision. "Early bird gets the worm, kiddo."
She yawned dramatically. "I guess that’s okay if you like eating worms." At eleven, Paige had developed a wit that constantly surprised me. "Can I have cinnamon toast?"
"Already in the toaster." I slid a glass of orange juice toward her. "Calcium supplement?"
"Dad." The eye roll was impressive. "I'm not a baby. I’meleven."
"Calcium for growing bones isn't just for babies." I held out the small tablet, our morning ritual unfolding exactly as it had for the past three years.
With another eye roll—she'd perfected the technique—Paige took the tablet. "Mrs. Swanson said she's bringing banana bread this morning."
"Did she now?" I poured a second cup of coffee, this one into the thermal mug Mrs. Swanson preferred. "That's the third time this month. We should get her something to say thank you."
"I did!" Paige said with a sly smile, crunching into her toast. "I made her a card in art class. And..." She hesitated, looking up at me through her lashes. "I maybe told her you'd fix her garbage disposal this weekend."
I raised an eyebrow. "Voluntelling me for home repairs now?"
She grinned, braces glinting. "You said we should always help people who help us."
"I did say that," I admitted, unable to hide my smile. "I'll bring my tools over on Saturday."
The soft knock at exactly 0615 announced Mrs. Swanson's arrival. I opened the door to find her holding a foil-wrapped package that was indeed emitting the heavenly scent of banana bread.
"Marion, you're spoiling us," I said, accepting the package while handing her the travel mug.
Mrs. Swanson waved away my thanks, her silver bob perfectly coiffed despite the early hour. "Nonsense. I had bananas going brown. Besides," she lowered her voice conspiratorially, "I've got a freezer full. My Austin and Mason loooove Nana’s banana bread, but Harold will eat himself into diabetes if I leave it all at home before they come visit again."
At fifty eight, Marion Swanson was the closest thing to family Paige and I had. A retired middle school English teacher, she'd moved in next door five years ago and had almost immediately become our emergency contact, occasional babysitter, and de facto grandmother figure.
"Paige tells me you've got a garbage disposal with my name on it," I said, checking my watch. 0617. Right on schedule.
"That girl," Mrs. Swanson chuckled. "I mentioned it was making a funny noise, and the next thing I know, she's promising your mechanical expertise. But only if you have time, Nathan."
