As I pulled out of the parking lot at Sunny’s, I couldn’t contain my grin. I shouldn’t be so happy that Dylan quit his job, or that Vera was so upset. But I had faith that they would work out their differences. I was grinning because I knew how happy this would make Laurel.

She expressed to me her concern about Dylan not being true to himself. Next time she dropped by to work on the garden, I’d have to tell her what Vera just told me. And I hoped she dropped by soon or I’d have to take care of the pruning and mowing for her.

As I drove home from Sunny’s, I thought of this morning’s appointment with Harold Erickson, my VA worker. Harold had a bunch of paperwork for me to fill out. He also had a list of things I needed to bring with me to my next appointment, to prove that the event — referred to as an in-service stressor — that caused my PTSD happened during my service. I would have to bring my discharge papers, my medals, records of my unit assignments, an official diagnosis from a physician, and written statements from fellow veterans.

The diagnosis was made by a VA physician, so that would be simple enough. I kept my medals in a box in the attic. I hadn’t been up there since I put them away a couple of years ago, but they would be easy to find.

Getting copies of my discharge and unit assignment records should not be a problem. But getting written statements from my fellow vets was not something I was looking forward to. I was certain that most of us wanted to forget those “in-service stressors.”

But without the statements, the VA couldn’t establish the nexus — the link between my PTSD and my service. Without the nexus, I couldn’t take part in the prolonged exposure therapy program starting at the VA in January.

I didn’t want the damn disability compensation. If they made me take it, I would just donate it. All I wanted was to take part in that program.

My buddy Marcus called me last year to ask me to give a statement for his claim. He had to move from his podunk town in Kentucky to Atlanta so he could participate in the program. He called me about six months later to tell me that it was the best decision he ever made and I should sign up as soon as I could.

As I turned onto my street, my mouth spread in a wide grin at the sight of Laurel’s SUV in the driveway. I didn’t see her husband’s truck anywhere, though there was a black SUV parked at the curb. But even if he was there, I didn’t see the problem in heading over to say hi to her, and tell her the news about Dylan.

Luck shined upon me when I stepped out of my truck and heard the sound of Laurel’s laughter coming from the other side of the cedar fence.

As I got ready to head over, it dawned on me that I still hadn’t returned one of Laurel’s pruning shears. They had been sitting in my garage since I borrowed them from her when mine crapped out. If she’s working in the backyard, she might need those.

As I walked down the driveway toward the back gate, I smiled as I realized the hostas she’d planted along the side of the house were thriving with the recent rains. Even if I’d only played a tiny role in this transformation, it still made me pretty fucking proud to see it with my own eyes.

Maybe there was still hope for me. Maybe the prolonged exposure therapy would actually help me figure out what the fuck was wrong with my brain. Maybe helping Laurel was the key to finally coming to terms with the death and destruction I’d unleashed on this world.

I couldn’t wait to see Laurel and thank her for being a catalyst for change in my life. I wanted to get a good look at her, make sure she was still eating and getting plenty of sleep.

The six-foot high cedar gate wiggled and a deep male voice called out, “Matt, I’m going to put my phone charging in the car. I’ll be right back.”

I stopped in the middle of the driveway, about eight feet from the fence. The wooden gate swung open and out stepped an enormous beast in a suit. His buzz cut and the hard look in his black eyes screamed ex-military. But the way he immediately swept his jacket back and reached for his sidearm told me he was either a skittish bodyguard or a thug.

“Who are you?” he shouted, my ears picking up the faint sound of the leather strap holding his firearm securely in place being unsnapped.

I dropped the shears as my body flooded with adrenaline and a familiar feeling of sheer dread overcame me.

Most people had the wrong idea about what a PTSD flashback felt like, their perceptions warped by Hollywood’s sensationalism. A PTSD flashback wasn’t like watching a movie of a memory you’d been trying to suppress. It was more like re-experiencing a feeling you’d been trying to bury.

The feelings of terror, rage, disgust, shame; the sensations of oppressive heat, ringing in your ears, blinding pain; those were the things that overcame me in stressful situations. And nothing set me off worse than having a gun pointed at me.

When I didn’t answer the question, this man who was the size of a grizzly bear pointed what looked like a nine millimeter Glock straight at my face.

I lost all sense of reality.