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“What does that mean, not hopeful?”

“There’s a chance she’ll lose her leg. We don’t know about her right hand yet, whether she’ll regain use of it.”

“How can I help her?”

“We’re doing all we can. The injuries to her face will heal quickly.”

Michael thanked the doctor and went back to stand by Jolene’s bed. He was there for hours, staring down at her, waiting for her to waken. He felt sick with the need to apologize to her, to recast his reaction. To be a better man. He’d grown so much in her absence, and then, at the first chance to show her those changes, he had failed. Utterly.

Finally, exhausted, he left her room and headed out of the hospital. But as he approached the elevators, he thought of Carl and Tami. He asked a nurse where the ICU was and then took the elevator up one floor to Tami’s room.

Through the window, he saw Carl standing at his wife’s bedside, his head bent forward, tears running down his cheeks. Michael was about to leave, but Carl looked up and saw him. Wiping his eyes, straightening, Carl walked away from the bed, came to the door, opened it.

“How is she?” Michael asked.

“Traumatic brain injury.” Carl shrugged. “It means she may wake up and she may not. She may be perfectly fine and she may not. They took out a piece of her skull because her brain is swelling. How’s Jo?”

Michael was surprised at the tears that stung his eyes. He didn’t bother wiping them away. “She may lose her leg, and her right hand is useless for now.”

They stared at each other. It should have been comforting, but it wasn’t. Michael couldn’t stand here with this man he hardly knew, trading fear back and forth. “Well. I’m heading to the Landstuhl House,” he said. It was a place built by some American philanthropist to house the families of wounded soldiers.

“I’m going to sleep here tonight. I had them bring me a bed.”

Michael should have thought of that. He mumbled something about seeing Carl tomorrow and headed out of the hospital. Less than thirty minutes later, he was settled into a small, well-appointed room with a bathroom en suite and a double bed in the Landstuhl House.

As he sat on his uncomfortable bed, staring at nothing and remembering everything, he tried to figure out a way to undo the mistake he’d made today. How would he convince Jolene that he’d changed when he’d acted exactly as she must have expected him to?

At the time they’d agreed upon, he called home. Betsy answered. In the middle of his hello, she said, “How’s Mom?”

What should he say? The truth would probably give her nightmares, but she needed to be prepared for the worst, didn’t she? He might have handled it better if he’d been prepared. He leaned back against the cheap, wobbly headboard. “She says she’s feeling a little better and she can’t wait to talk to you.”

“But what’s wrong with her?”

He paused. Now was the time to say something, the right thing, to calm his daughter’s fears and allow her to hope. He turned through the choices—lies or the truth—and came up with half-truths. “Her right hand and ankle are … hurt. They’re working to fix them up now.”

“She’s left-handed, so that’s good,” Betsy said.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely.

“Dad? What aren’t you telling me?”

He cleared his throat. “Nothing, Betsy. We don’t know everything yet, that’s all. They’re still running some tests. I’m sure that soon—”

“You think I’m a baby. Lulu!” she yelled, “Dad’s on the phone. He wants to tell you that Mom got shot down but she’s fine.”

“Betsy—”

“Daddy?” Lulu squeaked. “Mommy’s all better? Did they give her ice cream?” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He talked to Lulu for a few minutes, although, honestly, he had no idea what either one of them said, and then his mother was on the phone.

“How is she, Michael?”

“I let her down, Ma,” he said softly, more to himself than to her. He knew instantly that it was a mistake, not the sort of thing he should have said to his mother, but he needed advice right now, and what good was advice based on bad information?

“She’ll let you know what she needs, Michael. Just listen to her.”

They talked for a few more moments. After he hung up, he closed his eyes, thinking that he would never be able to sleep, but, before he knew it, sunlight was streaming into the room, and he was blinking awake.

The bedside clock said seven fifteen.

He got out of bed, feeling old and tired. By the time he’d showered and shaved and dressed for the day, he felt a little better.

Until he stood at Jolene’s bedside, and it all came rushing back—the fear, the guilt, the anger. He was afraid she would lose her right leg and use of her hand, and in losing them become someone else. He couldn’t imagine how it would feel to be so wounded, to lose so much. How could she get back to who she had been?

He felt guilty that he worried about her limbs when her life hung in the balance, and he was pissed off that she’d put herself in harm’s way and been wounded and now neither one of them would be the same.

He hated his own weakness, felt as if he were stewing in this pot of his own worst traits. He wanted to be the kind of man who just wanted her to live, in any condition—and he did, he was that man—but he was the other man, too, the one that couldn’t imagine looking at her in the same way if she lost her leg and couldn’t use her hand.

He moved in closer, careful not to disturb the tubes coming out of her.

Her face looked flushed; beneath the yellow and purple bruising, her skin had a reddish cast, and she was sweating profusely, breathing shallowly. Dirty, greasy hair flanked her injured face. Her lips were chapped and cracked and peeling, colorless. It made him think that he should have ChapStick with him. The smell was worse today, like garbage left out on a hot day. He fought the urge to gag.

He glanced down the blanket. Her right leg, on top of the blanket, was still swollen and awkward looking, the foot turned almost unnaturally to the right. That vacuum sucked and wheezed, drawing viscous yellow liquid from the wound.

He heard her come awake, heard the catch in her breathing.

“Mi … chael,” she said, her head lolling sideways to look at him. Her gaze was glassy, unfocused. “You’re … here … thass nice…”

“I was here before, remember?”

She frowned, licked her lips. “You were?”

“Jo?” He had so much to say to her, but where should he start? It was hard enough to undo damage done in a marriage without all of this. He brushed the hair from her face and felt her forehead.

She was burning up.

“Wait…” she said, drawing the word out. “You doan love me…”

Michael hit the nurse’s button. When a woman came in, he said, “She’s burning up.”

The nurse pushed him aside so hard he stumbled back. Within seconds, the room was full of people, taking Jolene’s temperature, pulling back the covers. A nurse unwrapped the gauze on her leg.

The smell almost made him sick.

“Get her to the OR, stat.” This was Dr. Sands. When had he come in?

“Wait,” Michael said, surging toward her, bending down. “I love you, Jolene … I do.”

It was too late; she was unconscious. He stood there while they wheeled her away.

She is crawling through the thick, sucking mud, carrying her best friend. “Hang on, Tami … don’t you die … I’ll get us there…”

But where are they going, where is she taking Tami?

Somewhere close by a bomb hits. The sky is full of fire and bullets and burning bits of steel. A helicopter hits the ground and bursts into flames.

She throws her body over Tami’s, trying to protect her, but when the night stills and she draws back, Tami is shriveling up in front of her, bleeding through her nose … her mouth … her eyes. There’s blood everywhere, and smoke. Jolene screams, “NOOOOO!”

She came awake, still screaming.

It took her a second to remember where she was: in a hospital. In Germany.

She moved with extreme caution, lifting her head off the pillow. She felt woozy and unfocused, a little sick to her stomach. Through slitted lids, she saw the machines around her. That whooshing, sucking vacuum was gone. So was the smell of rotting flesh. Now she smelled antiseptic and plastic.

She tried to rise on one elbow, but the effort winded her. Breathing hard, dizzy, she stared down at her legs.

Leg.

From about the knee down, the right side of her bed was a flat expanse of white blankets. She had a distant, watery memory of recovery, of seeing nurses and doctors come and go, monitoring her progress.

They had amputated her leg. Cut it off at the knee.

She grabbed a pillow and covered her mouth and howled in grief and pain; she screamed until her throat was parched and her eyes were stinging and her chest ached. She imagined her new life, off-balance, differently abled, broken, and each image was a scab she had to pick—no more flying Black Hawks or running along the beach or picking up her children and twirling them around on a summer’s day.

Finally, exhausted, she slumped back into the pillows and closed her eyes. The grief gave way to a yawning sense of despair. Here she was, her leg cut off, lying in a hospital bed far from home, without a best friend to talk to or a husband to hold her.

Michael.

She released a heavy breath at the thought of him.

He would stay with her now; that was who he was. Michael Zarkades had a strong sense of duty. He would see that she was broken, and he would step back into the marriage where he belonged. Pity would bring him back to her; duty would make him stay. That was why he was here, after all. The dutiful husband standing by his broken wife.

Someone touched her face gently. She opened her eyes slowly, worked to focus. The meds were still in her system, making her unsteady.

Michael smiled tiredly down at her. The shirt he wore, an expensive black turtleneck, hung strangely, as if he’d been pulling on the fabric at his throat, stretching it out. Of course he touched her gently. She was damaged now, crippled; he would be afraid to touch her, afraid that what was left of her would break. “Hey, sleepyhead,” he said, “welcome back.”

“Michael,” she said, feeling inestimably sad. “Why are you here?” She had to concentrate to make her voice work. She felt so groggy.

“You’re my wife.”

She swallowed; her throat was dry. Her thoughts jangled around her head. “You wanted a divorce.”

“Jo, I’ve been trying to tell you since I got here: I love you. I was an idiot. Forgive me.”

It was what she’d waited months to hear, dreamed of almost every night in the desert, ached for, and now … she didn’t care. His words were meaningless. She pushed her morphine pump and prayed for the drug to work quickly.

“Give us a chance, Jo. You need me now.”

“I’ve never needed anyone.” She sighed. “And thank God for that.”