Purple Hearts(69)

“No,” Luke said, his eyes looking up at me. “I’ve always been curious about it, to be honest.”

“Well,” I said, washing my hands. “It’s not that exciting.”

I took my lance, poked the side of my index finger, drawing the tiniest drop of blood. I glanced at Luke. He was transfixed. I smiled.

“Now,” I said, holding up a bloody finger, “I touch the edge of the strip, and we wait.”

The air was quiet, thick with steam. I put a cotton ball on my fingertip.

“About 3.6. A little low.” I grabbed a glucose tablet and popped it in my mouth. “Tablets for nonemergencies,” I said, pointing to the bottle. “Packets for emergencies.” I pointed to the box.

“Why packets?”

I hesitated, wondering how I should put this without scaring him. “In case I’m too out of it to swallow.”

I heard him move around again, the water lapping. I opened the cabinet again, reaching the tiny notebook and pen I kept there to record my levels.

“You record the blood sugar in a notebook?” Luke said.

I nodded.

“I do that, too. I mean with my running times.” He cleared his throat. “Or rather, I used to. Anyway, guess what?” he said. “I’m going to start physical therapy tomorrow, for real. I’m going to run again if it kills me.”

I tossed the washcloth back into the water. I let out a breath. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I glanced at his leg. The injured part was mottled brown, scarred. Just below his right knee was a single darker scar, the size of a bullet hole.

“What, you don’t believe me?” he asked, snatching the washcloth out of the water to do the rest, splashing me.

I splashed him back, standing. “Actually, I do.”





Luke


Jake still hadn’t shown, and I was beginning to worry. I wouldn’t be surprised if he backed out. We’d talked a week ago, and I’d even left my phone on just in case, but I hadn’t heard from him since. I hadn’t heard from Johnno, either, which was starting to make me think my phone wasn’t working, or something. The air outside Cassie’s house was cool. The grass was dry, the pavement wet where Rita had watered her planters. Passing cars kicked up dust and birds fluttered overhead. It was all so normal, but after weeks being cooped up in Cassie’s apartment, the world felt heightened somehow, a brighter version of itself.

I’d been up, walking circles around Cassie’s apartment, for days, but this was the first time I’d tried the stairs by myself, using the cane the hospital had given me.

Even so, my stiff legs were practically itching to run. I started to remember the last time, the day before Frankie and Rooster and I found out we were heading to the Pakistan border. I’d hit the track at dawn, leaving Rooster and Frankie sleeping in the little wood-paneled room, untouched air in my lungs, holding two truths at once: that everything was hard, and that everything was going to be okay.

And then it hadn’t been.

The memory hooks came. If we hadn’t gotten in the jeep, if I’d blocked Frankie, if, if, if. The daily desire for cloud head was rising, wanting to erase it all. I pushed it away. Not here, not here, not now. I’d taken only one this morning.

I’d put Rita in charge of my prescription, instructing her to stagger them out to twice a day, no matter what I asked. She understood.

Not a second later, as if to reward me, Jake turned down Cassie’s street in his car. “You need a hand getting in?” he called through the open window.

I limped toward him. “Nah, it’s good.”

“Well, look at you,” he said.

The whole drive to Buda we barely spoke, just listened to the local sports radio station’s pregame analysis. It was the conference championship, they were saying. The Bears were favored to win.

We were late. Of course, precisely when I had plopped my cane onto the first row of bleachers, hauling my gimp leg like a sack of potatoes, the band director tapped his baton on the stand. Everyone rose in silence, their hands on their hearts, poised to sing the national anthem.

Thump. I had been concentrating on propelling myself to the next step, not noticing that the talking had died down. Kerthump.

Everyone’s eyes were pulled toward the sound. “Poor guy,” I heard. “Morrow’s son. Veteran.”

The band director, being the patriot that he was, waited until I had made a slow, rotisserie chicken–like turn to face the flag.

“Oh, say can you see,” the voices began around me.

“Move to give him your seat, Carl,” I heard.

Jake and I kept our eyes ahead. I didn’t want anyone’s seat. All I did was get shot at and come back home and sit on a stranger’s couch eating pills. I didn’t deserve anyone’s seat. For the thousandth time that day, I wished I was cloud head. No.

About halfway through the first quarter, Jake and I had finally made it to the only open seats in the third row.

“You good, man?” he asked, helping to ease my lower half into a sitting position.

“Yeah,” I assured him. “Just don’t ask me to get you anything from the concession stand.”

Jake laughed and I felt an inch of relief.

One of the Bears’ post players had just dived for the ball. Out of bounds. The whistle blew.