IN THE COOL OF THE pre-dawn, I lean against the exterior door of the house, breathing hard and listening as her screams drift away. She sounds like the next victim being dragged to their demise in every horror film I’ve ever watched.

Her wails haunt me. They hang in the air, like the ghosts of the soldiers I can’t leave behind. I don’t know her, but I do. Somehow, I do.

But I don’t just know her. She’s mine. Christ. I want her to be mine.

I take a step away from the door, wanting to descend the porch stairs and leave; each footfall feels like sledgehammers are pounding at my chest. I love her. I love her. I love her.

I love a damn illusion.

That fact frightens me as much as the hallucination. My brain worked something up so real to me that I can’t be sure of anything. I’m standing on the edge of ravenous insanity.

And I turn towards that edge, despite where it might lead. I walk towards the fall that is coming, towards the house door, and I turn the knob.

But she’s gone. The house is empty.

I take a step forward, but my one knee quakes, sending me into a forward pitch. I grope for the porch column, but my hands are encased in numbed mittens. It takes seconds to fall down the front steps, but my brain replays an eternity’s worth of loss.

She’s gone.

Mangled bodies surround my feet, black suns burned into the dusty soil from an IED. Shrapnel and shards of bone litter the ground. I can help get her home. But Michelle’s other arm twitches on the ground in front of me, and I wonder where the rest of her has gone.

Then what I already knew hits me again.

I’m dragging Michelle’s other parts behind me, trying to get her to EVAC point. Her face is mangled nearly beyond recognition, but I know her hair. Beyond that, there’s not much left of her. She had just gotten a care package from home, all the guys were looking forward to her mom’s cookies. Her favorite color is pink, close to the shade of the brain bit confetti the insurgents threw for us.

“She’s gone, man,” the lieutenant screams at me. He’s missing the bottom half of his body, too. “I’m still here. Help me,” he moans. And then he slumps forward, nose to the dirt.

I let the now-cool hand fall from mine. How do I always get stuck with the pieces? No matter how often I try to right the imbalance, how the fuck am I always the winning survivor, escorting everyone to their appointment deaths?

It’s my turn. Let me die.

I stumble once again out of the house. I nearly fall down the stairs. When I’ve staggered a few feet out into the unpaved drive, I fall to my knees. I convulse as reality crashes in and bits of gravel dig into my hand. I let my body collapse the rest of the way and I roll to the side, clutching my chest. My eyes close as my brain clouds behind conscious thought. Everything goes dark.

And silent.

When I wake up, it’s still dark. I don’t know if it’s night or day or somewhere in between.

It takes me too long to control myself, to realize where I am and what happened. Too long. If I hadn’t already realized that I was getting worse, this would confirm it. I check that the prosthesis is still firmly on and struggle to my feet again. Once there, I take a step forward, banishing the flashbacks to the past where they belong, begging them to go for good. How much time has passed?

The doc back home gave me a referral. The number is in my jacket hanging in the camper. That bit of paper, the promise of a sane person’s voice on the end of the line, spurs me on. I rush around the house and towards my home on wheels like my life depends on it. Because it does.  I hope it is still business hours. I hope I’m not too late, or too early.

I can’t be late to an appointment for saving myself.

I won’t let my eyes look at every window I pass, no matter how much my heart is telling me to. I don’t want to see if she’s back, staring at me through the glass. No, thank you. She’s the siren waiting to suck me into psychosis.

Fuck that shit.

Back at the camper, I grasp the warped door frame and pull myself inside. I’m still breathing hard, like I’ve escaped from a nightmare. I pull the door closed and then spin to face it. I don’t know if anything is chasing me or why I’m running. Light now seeps in around the jam, and I wait for the hell smoke or the haze of the underworld to come in. I’ve lost time somehow. It’s daylight.

The distance between me and that... ghost. I was going to think ghost. I start again.

The distance I’ve put between me and the foyer helps ease the tightness in my chest. My brain chemistry must be all out of whack. At the FOB, I heard some crazy stories of chemical imbalance. My UCP ACU coat is over the back of the one chair I have in my little RV. I think that was the last jacket I wore. When I left home, there was still a chilly bite to the air most mornings. I hadn’t needed it much this far south.

I take two steps and snag it, feeling the pockets until the telltale crinkle of paper announces my find. Thank God. I retrieved the slip and studied the numbers.

In that moment, the space between me and the world my brain made up widens.

My next breath comes easier, less strangled.

In all my years as a soldier, I’ve never panicked. Not like that.

That’s a problem.

I spy my cell on the tiny shelf next to my bed. I study the door, listening. I can’t hear anything, and there’s nothing to suggest that I’m being followed. My shoulders droop. It’s been a helluva twenty-four hours. I’ll be lucky if the doc believes me.

I grasp the phone and ease down on the queen mattress. This morning, I made the bed. Maybe in that space of time I don’t remember passing.

You could take the soldier out of the army, but it took a long time to take the army out of the soldier. If ever.

I dial the number and hit the green button.

After two rings, a man answers, “Dr. Braham.”

“Oh,” I say, already thrown off. It is business hours. Someone has answered. “I didn’t realize you would answer.”

“I don’t usually,” he says. He’s suspicious. He probably thinks I’m a telemarketer. “You called my direct line, and I’m between my patients. Who is this?” My response isn’t immediate, so he adds, “It’s an unlisted number.”

I clear my throat. “My name is Spencer Kilbourn. I was referred to you by Dr. Frakes for PTSD. Can I come in today? I’ve had some...” I pause. There’s no way he’ll believe me. I grimace. I don’t need him to believe me. It wasn’t real. “Issues lately.”

Paper rustles and then Dr. Braham hums. He’s a pen clicker, he’s got one on him, near enough to the phone for me to hear.

“I always keep a little room in my schedule for emergencies,” he says. “You’re not an established patient, so it’s good you got through to me. My receptionist is a stickler for the rules.” His voice turns warm, and I can hear the smile. “Can you be here in an hour?”

“Sure.” I give him my pertinent information, and he ends the call with an assurance that he’ll do everything he can to help me. By the time the call is over, I’ve decided to like the guy.

I just hope he doesn’t commit me.

A couple hours later, Dr. Braham is across from me, seated in his black leather desk chair. He’s fit, though middle-aged, clean shaven and looks like he’s accustomed to rounds of golf. A fancy watch catches the light. His wall is covered with awards and pictures. In one, a general that I don’t recognize shakes his hand. Even so, he’s got confidence, and he doesn’t speak like he’s trying to sound smart.

Those two things help keep my butt in the over-stuffed chair I’m in.

I’m relieved Dr. Braham didn’t ask me to lie down on the couch. My heart is already pounding. I’ve hated head-care visits since I came home from the first tour. However brief, they’re still a mandatory stop after combat. And they’re annoying as hell. I’m used to soldiering on.

“So, you’ve seen a woman,” he repeats. “In your dreams.”

It was a woman. It happened at night. It was the most realistic damned dream I’ve ever had. I’d classify her more like a vision. I fucked her brains out.

I don’t say any of that out loud.

Instead, I say, “A pale, ghostly woman... and other things.” I can’t bring myself to tell him that I fucked her. I’ve been close a dozen times in the last hour, but the words screech to a halt before I can push them past my teeth.

He taps his pen on his clipboard. “Several of the tests have already come back normal. Beyond the PTSD symptoms, all normal.”

“So what now?” I have to know. I’d been scanned and poked and prodded all afternoon. They’ve shoved me in MRI tubes, drawn blood, even made me bend over and cough. It was nearly 6:30 PM, and I got the feeling the doc was staying later than normal just for me.

He shifted in his desk chair. “Have you considered the possibility that maybe your brain is expressing latent desires? Desires that you’ve been ignoring?”

“Expressing desires?” I repeat his words. Anything is possible.

Marie needs my help. The thought stops me short. Her lingering memory is as strong as any other woman walking around New Orleans, and she needs me. My idiot brain is up to no good again. Marie isn’t real. I repeat it three times for good measure.

“Maybe you’re lonely. You’re a soldier. You save people from ugly things. Maybe your brain is creating a damsel that needs saving, so you can give yourself permission to...”

“Have sex?” I’d have had sex with the waitress at the restaurant. Until she saw my metal shin. The thought comes unbidden, and I pull that leg closer.

He raises an eyebrow, but continues, “To have companionship. To love and be worthy of having that love returned, despite what you may still count as a limitation.” His gaze drops to my bum leg.

“That’s all you’ve got for me?” I stand. This is ludicrous, and I’m not paying for another hour of this fruitcake psycho bullshit if the VA bitches about the charges.

Dr. Braham presses his lips together, studying me. I get the feeling he’s heard my thoughts before. Probably out loud. To his face.

He says, “I can adjust your meds. With your recent move, maybe your brain chemistry is out of whack. Until the remaining results come back, that’s about all I can do for now. But seeing things replay in your head can be a normal symptom of PTSD.” He writes something on a little pad, peels the little rectangle off, and holds it out to me.

“I’ll take the med change,” I say in a rush, glad I won’t go home empty-handed. It could solve the whole problem. Maybe I would get a good night’s sleep at least.

I’m at the four-way for the road home, ignoring my empty stomach. It started complaining while I was waiting for the clerks at the twenty-four-hour pharmacy to fill my prescription. The sun set while I was in the checkout line, tossing oranges and reds through the front glass. I grabbed a candy bar on the way out, but figured I’d eat at home.

When I walked out of there, three stars twinkled above the horizon and a weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

I’m going to be okay. Optimism is rare in my world, but there it is.

I pull to a stop at the red light; I hit the blinker on the Jeep. I’ve been thinking about Dr. Braham’s words since I left his office. They ate at me while I sat in the waiting room chairs. He’s probably ninety-five percent a crock of shit.

The car behind me taps their horn. Impatient bastard. The light already changed from green to yellow, so I decide to sit there through another cycle. He can shove his honk where the sun don’t shine.

So maybe Dr. Braham is more like eighty percent. His reasoning is... a weird sort of “feelings logic” that I don’t get.

My stomach growls again, and I glance in my mirror. I just downed the pills that will solve the whole... sex-with-a-ghost problem. Though, I’m supposed to take them with food. The pharmacist was pretty clear during the consult. Good thing I’m hungry anyway. That feeling hasn’t been around much lately, even less often than optimism.

I hit the blinker the other direction and head the opposite way, using the right-on-red law. The driver behind me yells obscenities, and I wave back through my rear window. Mad drivers aren’t worth the trouble, and there’s a diner down the street that looks more like an old-fashioned Irish pub. It won’t have that anti-prosthetic waitress either.

And it’s not at all that I’m avoiding going home. I’m not afraid of seeing... her... again.

Thankfully, the pub is mostly empty, and the food they’re cooking up smells goddamned delicious. I slide into a booth, positioning myself to watch a couple of pretty, laughing ladies play a round of pool beneath a green-glassed pub light. Dinner and a show.

Otherwise, the mid-week regulars are quiet, sipping pints while watching the game on the big screen. I haven’t read the warnings on the prescription, so I only order a coke to drink. I’d hate to wind up in a ditch if alcohol and my meds don’t mix. I add fries and a hamburger with all the fixins. I don’t even ask what the fixins are. I don’t care. I’m starving.

My cell is pressed against my thigh, so I pull it out and toss it up on the table. I’ve missed a couple calls from a number I don’t recognize, but that’s not unusual. I don’t bother calling back to see who it was. I’ll check the voicemail later.

I’m engrossed in the stripes and solids competition in front of me, and I guess I didn’t hear the footsteps. “I swear I’m not stalking you.” A sweet voice says near my table. “I had no idea you come here.”

I flinch, but her words don’t rankle like I expect. The pills must be working already. “Yeah?” I turn toward the voice as I try to place it.

It’s the lady from the historical society, and she’s drop-dead gorgeous. More so than I remember. My mouth drops open, but I cover it with a smile. Her hair’s all wild, red curls piled on orange. Her lips are painted bright red and, beneath a leather jacket, the v-neck of her shirt exposes a smattering of freckles across her cleavage. She lets me look, even twists a little to give a peek at the tight-assed jeans. Her perfume smells fresh and clean, almost citrus. When my gaze makes it back to her eyes, she’s grinning at me, and her eyes glitter in the low lights.

It’s like a punch in the crotch. A jolt of electricity I didn’t expect. “Hello,” I say. I want to say something more, something clever, but I’m all tongue-tied and caught up in her visual glory.

“Hey back,” she says, eyeing the bench across from me.

“What are you doing here?” I pause, trying to remember her name. “Sophie,” I finally manage.

Sophie waves over her shoulder. “I meet my friends here to play pool once a week.” She leans toward me, and her shirt falls open. I resist the urge to look. God I want to. “But, to be honest, this place feels like someplace my brother would like. He taught me to play pool, and he loved Irish pubs. Makes me miss home a little less.” She straightens.

I glance toward the table in the center of the room. The ladies are nowhere to be seen. I hope she didn’t see me ogling them. “Where are your friends?”

“I had to work late today, and they decided to go to a club. I’d have gone with them, but I noticed you were over here.” She rocks from foot to foot, glancing at the empty seat again. “I’ll probably meet up with them later.”

“You could join me.” I hope I’m not misreading her cues.

“I’d love to.” She takes off her coat, tosses it in first, and then slides into the booth. She immediately props her feet up on my side, right next to my thigh. I grit my teeth. I can’t take another low blow to my ego. Not like the waitress. A wave of her perfume assaults my senses, desire snakes up my spine. I haven’t been this nervous since I was kid and didn’t know which end was up. This is going to go like the waitress.

She smiles again and then asks, “What brought you here?”

“Drove by earlier in the day. Looked like a decent place.” I don’t give her much more than that. Doctors and PTSD isn’t usually something I mention on a first date.

“I’m so glad you did. What are the chances I’d run into you after trying to call you all day?”

“You tried to call me?” Incredulous doesn’t even begin to describe it. I’m pretty sure I’d have remembered her calling.

“Several times.”

Then it dawns on me. The missed calls. The voicemail. I offer a sheepish grin. “Sorry. I didn’t recognize the number. I don’t often answer them. I’m not the best at phone...” I search for the word. “Stuff,” It’s an awkward save. I’m not good at this dating thing. I don’t think I ever was. “I figured it was a telemarketer welcoming me to New Orleans.” I mentally cringe. Maybe not the best follow-up sentence. That’ll teach me to ignore everyone.

To my relief, she laughed. “Not the worst thing I’ve been called, but I’m pleased I found you anyway.”

“Me, too,” I say. And I mean it. She’s like a breath of fresh air.

The waiter arrives with my burger. He sets it in front of me, and I look to Sophie. “Hungry?”

“Why, Spencer, are you bribing the historical society?” She makes a stern face.

“Oh, well, if you think it wouldn’t be appropriate...” I stammer. I hadn’t even considered that there might be a conflict of interest.

Sophie lays her hand on my forearm, and I think the nosy-assed waiter snickered. “Easy, Spencer, I was only kidding.” She draws her hand back. “So far, there aren’t any rules about socializing with home owners outside of work. We’re fine.”

“That’s great.” Eating alone is suddenly more unappealing than it’s ever been. “My treat,” I add, leaning forward, hoping for a yes.

Instead of answering, she winks at me and speaks to the hovering waiter. She orders the same thing as me, but with a pint of Irish ale. When she turns back to me, she softly says, “It’s a date.”

I rack my brain for something to ask. “Tell me about your brother?” I ask. It’s the first thing that pops into my head, and she takes the invitation to tell me about her family.

An hour goes by without effort, she laughs every other breath. She asks about my family, and I don’t have much to add, but, from that moment on, she fills the gaps in the conversation that I can’t. I’m completely enamored. By the end of the night, I can’t help but wonder if the doc might be on to something. I haven’t felt this happy in months.

There’s a lull in the conversation when the waiter drops the bill at the end of the table. I don’t want the evening to end, but I’m not sure what to do next.

“They’re giving a special tour tonight at the LaLaurie Mansion tonight. It’s led by a psychic and invite-only. My boss gave me his two tickets and I thought about going, but it’s not the kind of thing I like to do alone. I mean, I’ve been once before, but with friends. You know, safety in numbers.” She looks up at me through her eyelashes. “Would you like to come?”

“What about your friends?”

“I’ll text them. I’m not as in to the club scene as they are anyways. If I’d had more than two tickets, I’d invite them along too, though,” she hesitates, biting her lower lip in a way that makes me need to swallow down a lump of lust that builds instantly in my throat at the sight, “I’m sort of glad that I ran into you and it’s worked out this way. I mean... if you want to go with me that is.”

Sophie saves the night. Again. Maybe I can do something nice for her later. While she waits for my answer, she smooths her tongue over her lips. Is she nervous? I can’t imagine this woman nervous.

“Sure then. I’d love to,” I say. I don’t even know what the LaLaurie Mansion is, but short of a suicide combat mission, I’d probably be happy to follow her anywhere tonight. There’s still potential to the evening, and I’m determined to enjoy her company for as long as I can, even though my hallucination waits at the edge of my thoughts.