Page 48 of What We Brave
"Maybe. Ground's not so bad."
"The ground's freezing."
"Builds character."
She actually laughs. It's a small sound, barely more than a breath, but it hits me like a freight train. I haven't heard her laugh in months. Didn't think I'd ever hear it again, at least not anywhere near me.
"Come on." She offers me a hand. "Get up before you freeze to your spot and I have to explain to Danny why one of his volunteers turned into a popsicle."
I take her hand. Her fingers are cold—she's been working without gloves, because of course she has—and I have to fight the urge to wrap both my hands around hers and warm them up. Instead, I stand, letting her take a little of my weight, then let go the second I'm on my feet, shoving my hands back in my pockets where they can't do anything stupid.
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it." She moves back to the supply table and starts reorganizing the bandages I apparently knocked over when I grabbed the edge for support. "So. Intestines, huh?"
I wince. "Fuck."
She glances at me sideways. "Did he make it? The guy you were holding together."
The question lands like a punch. I should've expected it—of course she'd want to know the outcome—but it still catches me off guard.
"No." The word comes out flat. "Bled out before the medevac got there. Took about six minutes."
Laine's hands still on the bandages. She doesn't look at me, but I can see her processing, filing that information away.
"Six minutes is a long time to hold someone together."
"Felt longer."
She nods slowly. Picks up a roll of gauze and adds it to the pile. "What was his name?"
"Cortez. Miguel Cortez." I haven't said his name out loud in years. "He was twenty-two. Had a kid back home he'd never met—girlfriend got pregnant right before we deployed."
"Did he know? About the baby?"
"Yeah. Found out about a month in. Showed everyone the ultrasound picture." I lean against the supply table, staring out at the camp instead of at her. Easier that way. "He was so fucking happy. Made all these plans. Gonna marry her when he got back, buy a little house, coach the kid's soccer team. Whole nine yards."
Laine's quiet for a moment. Then: "What happened to them? The girlfriend and the baby?"
"Don't know. Didn't keep in touch." It's a lie. I know exactly what happened to them. Maria Cortez married a high school teacher two years after Miguel died. The kid—a boy, named Miguel Jr.—is eleven now. I've sent anonymous money every year on the kid's birthday, enough to help but not enough to raise questions.
She's watching me with that steady gaze again. The one that sees too much.
"How long were you deployed?"
"Which time?"
"How many times were there?"
"Four tours. First one was eight months, then two six-month trips, then another eight." I do the math in my head, even though I already know the answer. "Just under two and a half years total. Not all at once."
"That's a lot."
"It's about average for that era." I shrug again. "Some guys did more."
"It's still a lot." She presses her lips together. "Reid doesn't talk about his service much."
"Reid's service was different." I pause, trying to figure out how to explain without saying too much. "He was support. Logistics, medical assist, that kind of thing. Important work, but not?—"
