I wanted her to leave, but now I miss her. My days without her are black and dark. All the light she gave to me is gone. I feel burned out, empty, alone. Unwanted, unloved.

I wonder what the point is.

I hate my stump. They’ve started compression therapy to shape it so I’ll have less trouble wearing a prosthetic. There’ve been some complications with the wound healing, so I won’t be getting my temporary prosthetic here as originally planned. Instead, I have to wait until Virginia.

All that makes it sound like I’ve been listening to the doctors, but I haven’t. Not really. Because I don’t really care what happens. Without Mac, my life is pointless. She’s the sunshine of my life, and I can’t get healthy without her. But I also can’t—and won’t—expect her to throw her life away just to live with a freak like me.

I don’t want to be a burden to her. That is the only truth in my heart.

I know there are people who lead good lives with a prosthetic. But Fire killed himself because he didn’t want that kind of life. And I understand him. I feel unmanly. Not like the elite soldier I was working to be.

Plus, she’s going to find it revolting. A stump is not pretty. I’ve seen it a few times now, and I’ve had to close my eyes every time. I can’t stand the sight of it. Mac won’t feel any different. How would our relationship work if she finds part of me revolting?

I spend my days thinking dark thoughts. When Mac was here, I could at least distract myself thinking about what she was doing in the waiting room all on her own. She was always there, no matter how many times I sent her away. She always came back.

Until she went home for good. That’s clear enough evidence that I’m not important enough to her to walk with me no matter what. She ran away at the first minor hurdle. No, I don’t need somebody like that. I don’t need anybody. And nobody needs me…

Knowing that after being a productive member of society I’ve turned into a useless one is what really gets me down. I know an amputation isn’t the end of the world, but it is the end of life as I know it. I’m a soldier! Without my body, I’m useless in my line of work. And more than that, I’m a Marine. Or should I say—I was.

Though there is one good thing that happens after Mac leaves: I get to bathe myself, and fat Berta has not taken over the job.

But I was the one who sent her away over and over again. One too many times. She obviously got the hint that I don’t want her anymore. No more than she wants me.

Maybe it would be best to follow Fire’s example.

* * *

When I land in Virginia, Carey’s standing there, waiting for me. I’m so surprised I’m completely speechless.

Smiling a little insecurely, he comes toward me and kneels next to my wheelchair. I pull him close, and we hug for half an eternity.

“Fuck, man!” he grumbles.

“Likewise,” I retort, trying to pull myself together. I can’t burst into tears right now. When he breaks away, I can see he feels the same. “What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

“What do you think? I’m here to see you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a stubborn old dog.”

“Did she say that?”

“Her name is Mac.”

“I know what her name is.”

“So use it.”

I roll my eyes. “Is she here, too?”

“Her name is Mac, and, yes, she’s here, too.”

“I don’t want to see her.”

“I don’t care.”

“She can’t come if I say no.” Fuck, I sound like a child.

“You’re not going to say no.”

“Yes, I am. I don’t want to see her.”

Carey stands with a sigh. “Hunter, man, she loves you, and you love her.”

“She can go to Carter,” I say coldly.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes,” I say even as everything inside me screams no—that would be the worst thing in the world.

“You’re so stupid.”

“They have a child together,” I snap.

Carey doesn’t say anything to that. He can’t. Because I’m right. That’s the knockout argument right there. They have a child together. They should be together.

A van with a wheelchair lift is waiting for me, which I find ridiculous. I could just move myself hand over hand, but no—they just have to make you feel useless. Assholes.

Carey clears his throat and moves to walk with me as I head toward the van. “What else is new, man?”

“I’ve only got one leg,” I gripe.

Carey scoffs. “What’s with the fucking self-pity?”

“Self-pity? Seriously? Fuck you. I’d like to see you deal with…” I shake my head, horrified I’d even thought it. “No, no, I never want to see that. Never.”

He gives me a sad look. “Hunter, man…”

I just nod.

When we get to the hospital, I check in at the desk inside the entrance. I don’t know if it was the right decision to stick with inpatient treatment, but where else would I go?

Fuck, Carey’s right. I’m just wallowing in self-pity. It’s pretty disgusting, really.

Almost immediately, I meet the orthopaedic tech who’s going to fit me with a temporary wooden leg. I wonder if they’ll give me an eye patch and a parrot to go with it.

The guy looks at my stump, which doesn’t look as bad as it did a few weeks ago. It’s healed pretty well. But it still looks so wrong. The sight makes me sick. The way everybody else probably feels. God, how could I ask Mac to take me like this? I can’t. That’s the only answer.

“It’s looking really good,” the tech says, and I have to stop myself from laughing bitterly. “I don’t think you’ll have much trouble. You’re young and fit. That’s definitely a plus. And we can try different things if something doesn’t work.”

I nod. What else can I do when somebody’s standing there pretending a prosthetic is like a pair of shoes you can just exchange for a new one?

“We’ll have an interim prosthesis ready for you in a few days,” he says, “and then we can start physical therapy. You’ll see. You’ll be moving around just the way you used to in no time.”

Those are big words, and I don’t believe a single one of them.

After that, I meet my doctor.

“It’s important that you tell us whenever you feel phantom pain,” he says. “We need to nip that in the bud, otherwise the pain memory builds up, and then it’s often too late. But in the beginning, we can give you medication against it, or use mirror therapy, which has been getting pretty good results.”

“Phantom pain? Like my lower leg’s still hurting?”

“Exactly. Simply put, the brain’s no longer getting signals from your lower leg, which causes a conflict inside the brain. It’s not a continuous pain, but it occurs occasionally, and factors like stress can intensify it. It’s important for it not to be recorded to your pain memory or it’ll be tough to get rid of.”

“Got it.” I nod. “So far, I’ve only experienced pain inside the stump itself.”

“Not every patient suffers phantom pain. You may be lucky.”

“I could definitely use some luck.”

“You’ll probably want to rest, but our charge nurse wants to talk to you, too, so everything goes according to your wishes and you can get healthy here.”

“Thank you.”

The charge nurse introduces herself, explains the rules, and asks me if I want to see visitors.

“Can I ban somebody?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says, a bit surprised. “This is about you, and we want to do everything we can to make your stay here as comfortable as possible.”

“Mackenzie Hall,” I say immediately. I don’t know whether this is the best or worst idea in the history of mankind.

“You want to ban her?” the woman asks.

I nod, even if it’s incredibly difficult for me to do.

“No problem.” She scribbles on a notepad. “Anybody else?”

“No, everybody else can come. Just not her.”

“All right. Anything else I can do for you, Sergeant?”

“No, thank you. That’s all.”

When I’m finally taken to my room, I try to get on the bed by myself. It takes so much to work it out. It’s hard and I am so frustrated, because this should be easy. Walking should be easy, everything should be fucking easy, but is so hard. I… I don’t want to live this life. I am helpless, fucking helpless. And all alone.

I’ve never thought of myself as a quitter, but right now it sounds mighty appealing.

I take my knife out of my luggage and almost fall from the bed, which deepens my resolve. I test it with my thumb and see a trail of red emerge from my skin. I observe the redness on the blade and feel a strange kind of peace. Does this feel like the right thing to do? Would it be right to end my life?

I put the knife to my wrist, ready to cut. I don’t want this life. I don’t want to have to rely on others, don’t want to be handicapped for the rest of my life. I can’t do that. I wasn’t born to do that. I’ll never be a Marine again.

The only thing I’ve ever wanted to be. And it’s been taken away from me.

I can’t go on like this. And knowing that I’ll never be with Mac kills me. I can’t fight a war on two fronts.

You’re a coward, a voice inside me says, sounding like Carey.

Tears wet my eyes. I can’t leave Carey alone, but I can’t lead this life, either. Of course, I knew what dangers I would be facing when I decided to be a Marine. I knew it could happen. That I might be wounded. I thought I was strong enough. But back then I still had hope.

Now I don’t…

I push the knife against the vein. I know I have to make a long, vertical cut to kill myself. And I cut…

I can hardly feel the pain—I’ve experienced worse. Blood streams out of me, and I feel strangely liberated. I press the knife to the other wrist and push the blade into my flesh.

“Sergeant Tilman,” a nurse says, opening the door. She sees the blood, and her face goes white. She presses the emergency button and hurries to my bed. “What are you doing?”

She tries to take the knife away from me, but I’m stronger and hold on to it. I can feel the blood pouring out of the cuts. Only a few more seconds. A few more seconds, and I’m done, if I can keep her off me just a little longer.

I know this is a cowardly choice. I know it. But what future do I have? Isn’t it better to end now than to keep getting pitied? I can’t do that. I don’t want that. That’s not how I imagined my life.

A doctor and two more nurses storm into the room and help the first nurse overwhelm me. They get the knife away from me just as my brain fogs over. I win…

In a moment, too much blood is going to have left my body to be saved. I did it…