My missing foot hurts like a bitch.

You’ve probably heard of phantom pain, and I’ll tell you right now—you’re picturing it wrong. It’s not nebulous, an aching vapor in roughly the size and shape of the limb you’ve lost—in my case, my left leg, starting just below the knee.

There is no shin. There is no foot. There are no toes.

They were irreparably mangled at the base of a mountain in Afghanistan, and it’s almost definitely my fault.

But fault has nothing to do with the very real burn at the back of my missing heel, like I shoved my feet into running shoes like a lazy bastard, not bothering to stick a finger between my ankle and the heel tab until I’m several miles in and it’s already too late. Fault has nothing to do with the sharp pebble between my second and third toes, driving into the webbing with every step I take along the filthy snowstreaked steps, or the burning stretch in my arch threatening to root in my heel. If that happens, I’m fucked, because there’s no cure for a bum heel in a foot that doesn’t exist.

The phantom pain rubs shoulders with the real pain where what’s left of my leg—what the doctors call residual limb like it’s the dry end of a party sub—and that pain, at least, I can take full credit for.

Ten steps away from the exit of the 50th Street subway, it’s already throbbing from standing on the train. The stairs are too narrow. It should be better on solid ground. The lady ahead of me on the steps doesn’t know that. The handle of her purse slips down her shoulder, inch by inch, the top partially unzipped. She curls her head toward her shoulder but it doesn’t do anything to pin down the strap. Whatever’s in the cardboard box is either fragile or too heavy to hold with one hand.

“Shit,” she whispers.

I step up beside her, the extra effort of catching up putting more pressure on the missing foot. My arch twists, pulls. It’s the only way to keep going, and I have to keep going. The exit beckons. I want to accept the invitation. I’m not a fucking hero, but I’m not a total asshole, either. I want to ignore her. I don’t.

“Give you a hand with that box?”

She flicks her eyes over to me. “I’m okay.”

“You’re about to lose half your purse.”

One more glance. The dress pants must help my case. “If you’re sure—”

I take the box and she hitches up the purse strap on her shoulder. Without the added weight she springs up the steps, waiting for me at the top. It’s heavy. It’s a good counterbalance for my shitty prosthetic but it makes my stump press into the socket, setting the hot spots on fire.

Out on the sidewalk I tip it back into her hands. “What do you have in there?”

A rueful shake of her head. “Books. I couldn’t let them go.” She turns away and back again. “Thanks.”

It’s three and a half blocks to where I’m going and cold as hell even though it’s sunny. The sidewalks are a mix of sand and slush and petrified dog shit and that pain between my toes. If I didn’t know better, I’d take off my boot and look for that pebble, rub at the arch.

No, I wouldn’t. Not with the buildings huddling together above me, blank windows watching my sorry progress. I should have canceled this meeting.

The foot that isn’t there presses down through a gray layer of slush and jerks sideways. I curse under my breath. I wore work boots today. I shouldn’t have worn work boots, but it’s this kind of weather that makes me glad I stuffed my metal replacement foot into something sturdy, with waterproof canvas. Even the thick treads aren’t a match for the endless winter nightmare in Manhattan.

This is a waste of time. Things were going fine at the factory in Queens. Totally fucking fine, except fo the muscle spasms that knocked me off balance when I lifted the assembled windows onto the racks, or the way my hands swelled for days on end from the chemical baths if I worked Section 12.

If I’d had some painkillers, it would’ve been good, but that asshole O’Connors at the VA had gone so far as to put down his clipboard and look me in the eye at my appointment last week, as if he was a wise old general and not a green doctor younger than I am.

You can’t keep putting your body through this punishment. That’s what he said to me. As if I deserve anything less than a punishing job—than mindless, manual labor.

Shit. Did I miss the building?

I shuffle myself over to a wrought-iron fence planted in the concrete and lean my hip against it. There’s not much slush here. I dig into the pocket of my dress pants, bought new at the last minute.

I have a card.

It reads:

Heroes on the Homefront

Veteran Services

540 W. 50th Street

New York, NY 10019

The sight of it makes both my feet itch. If I still had both of them, instead of dragging around this titanium-alloy bullshit, I’d run back to the train station right now.

Too late for that. I’m already in front of 540 W. 50th, and there are giant windows up front. They’ve been cleaned recently, so I have a full unobstructed view of the receptionist, who smiles at me and gives me a little wave.

Jesus Christ.

The socket on the temp prosthetic is digging into my leg somehow, sending sharp sparks of pain up into my thigh. The gel liner that’s supposed to protect it is worn down. I reach for the door and my leg resists picking up my foot. I swing it twice to get myself through, and on the second swing my boot catches in a snowdrift a few inches from the door, which throws me off balance.

I’ll never let them see my shame. Heroes on the Homefront—what utter bullshit. I’m not a hero. I can’t even get through the front door without everybody in here—some woman has now joined the receptionist behind the desk, absolutely wonderful—giving me pitying looks.

I let the door swing shut behind me and step fully into the lobby. The receptionist is half out of her seat as if she’s about to rush over and take my arm, and Christ, if she does that, I’m done with this place and every other place, to be honest. She must see it in my face because she sits down, still wearing the encouraging smile that’s making my gut twist, and watches me approach the desk, eyes wide and shining.

“Welcome to Heroes on the Homefront,” she says, big brown eyes practically glistening now, for fuck’s sake. “How can I help you today?”

“Dayton Nash. I have an appointment at eleven.”

She nods as if she’s in the presence of greatness—I’m going to die of disgust—and picks up the handset of her phone. The other woman disappears in a flash of bleach-blonde pixie cut. “Have a seat, Mr. Nash. There’s coffee and tea, if you’re interested.” Ms. Pitying Receptionist lifts her chin toward a coffee cart over by the opposite window. As if I’m going to drag myself all the way across the room while she watches her own personal performance of a hero on the homefront. I take the nearest seat.

And wait.

Five minutes tick by, then ten, then fifteen. It’s ten past now, and too hot in the waiting room. Too boring. The sleek furniture is fine for five minutes but not for twenty, and the music—god, the music, it’s soft country and right now I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the framed photos of the American flag on the walls. I can’t stand the black carpeting, shot through with red and white and blue. And I can’t fucking stand that I’m here in the first place like some asshole who can’t get a job on his own, who thinks he deserves something cushy, something pre-arranged. If only that cow-eyed receptionist knew what I’ve done. What I still could do, if push came to shove. The ends justify the means.

Twenty-two minutes.

It shouldn’t be this hard to do the shit you’re supposed to do. To work a job on the right side of the law. To claw yourself out of the black, numb despair that creeps into your chest at night, that makes you get a cramp in the foot that doesn’t exist, a cramp that won’t release its grip until the sun comes up and you have to be on the factory floor, making windows for buildings you’ll never see.

I’m leaving.

It’s not worth it. It’s not worth this.

I shift my weight forward in this hellish, stylish seat.

“Mr. Nash?”

It’s not the receptionist’s voice. It’s not a voice I’ve heard in a long time, and at the sound of it my toes—real and imagined—curl. Pleasure or shame? I don’t know.

I drag my eyes away from the carpet and shove myself up out of the chair as some other guy makes his way past. I don’t let myself look until I’m upright in case it’s not her, in case it’s a hallucination I’d be better off ignoring.

It’s not a hallucination.

It’s really her.

A different version of her. A gorgeous, grown-up version of her. Not the gritted-teeth version going too fast down Suicide Hill, snow and determination in her eyes, or the tomato-red mortified version standing alone at the corner of the school dance, but I’d know her anywhere.

Anywhere is here. Right in front of me, saying my name.

The strangest desire wraps its fists around my heart and squeezes. I wonder if her hair still smells like Pantene.

My foot doesn’t hurt at all.