talk to him. One day, she suddenly burst into tears and left.
He should have called out to her. Just one word would have heartened her, but he couldn’t seem to manage even that.
When he was little, his mother’s tears were enough to stop him in his tracks. She’d cried the time he’d gone out drinking with his friends and had been picked up by the local police. He’d never done it again.
Now, he just couldn’t work up the energy to feel bad.
When she left, the room got quiet and he went back to staring.
Light to dark. Dark to light.
Someone bringing food.
Someone manipulating his leg.
He barely noted those variations.
He recalled a doctor coming in and talking about post-traumatic stress and using words like elective mutism .
Even that couldn’t shake him from the listlessness.
Then sometime later—hours, days, he wasn’t sure—he heard heavier footsteps come into the room.
He sensed someone standing behind him, but couldn’t work up the energy to turn and see who.
“Come on, Sam. It’s time to get up.”
His surprise was the impetus he needed to turn. “Grid?”
“So, Romeo, you can talk. Told ’em that Samuel Adams Corner wasn’t a quitter. I was right. Now, get up.”
Sergeant Harrison Gridley was a friend. He’d been there the day . . .
Sam’s momentary spurt of energy evaporated and he sank back into his seat, longing to just go back to staring and not thinking.
“So, that’s it?” Grid was pissed. It didn’t take any special abilities to hear it in his voice.
“You got nothing to say?”
Grid pulled a chair over and moved into Sam’s line of sight.
“Listen, I know this isn’t about your messed-up leg and other injuries. You’re too tough to stop over that.” He paused, as if Sam had answered. “I get it. It hurts. Ramsey, Smith, Johnson, Lyle, and Lennon. Their names are part of me. They always will be. I miss them, too, but you can’t just stop because of it.”
He stood, pushed back the chair, and got the walker that stood in the corner.
“Your PT guy said you should be walking. Hell, Sam, you should be talking and getting on with your life.”
Grid reached down and threw the brakes on Sam’s wheelchair. “Come on.”
Sam couldn’t make himself reach for the walker.
“That’s it? You’re going to just stop? All those guys who didn’t get a choice, who aren’t going home, who will never hug their moms or their girls again, and you’re just going to give all that up willingly? I thought you were brave, Sam, but you’re not. You’re a coward.”
He turned and walked toward the door. Then turned again. “You’re dishonoring the boys—you’re dishonoring every man who fought over there and will never have a chance to come home and live their life.”
Grid left before Sam could try and find the words to tell him that he didn’t understand. Grid was right—it wasn’t Sam’s leg; it was . . . everything. A huge weight had settled over him. Grid was wrong; Sam didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t the pain of his injuries, but the pain of those losses.
He sat in the wheelchair, staring at the walker. He wished he could go back to just staring out the window. He wished that Grid hadn’t come and disturbed his peace.
No, peace wasn’t the right word.
But he didn’t have the energy to figure out what the word would be.
“Inertia,” Sam said.
I nodded. I got that. More than most people would.
“Every day Grid came to visit and pushed and prodded. He had the therapist show him what to do, and then he did it. Over and over. He twisted my leg. He pulled at it, stretching the damaged muscles. But more than that, he twisted me and pulled me from wherever it was I’d been hiding . . .”
Two weeks after Grid arrived, he sat across from Sam.
“Do you remember that night they served hot dogs and you started rhapsodizing about Smith Hot Dogs? They’re a western Pennsylvania thing, and you went on and on about how no other hot dogs could
He should have called out to her. Just one word would have heartened her, but he couldn’t seem to manage even that.
When he was little, his mother’s tears were enough to stop him in his tracks. She’d cried the time he’d gone out drinking with his friends and had been picked up by the local police. He’d never done it again.
Now, he just couldn’t work up the energy to feel bad.
When she left, the room got quiet and he went back to staring.
Light to dark. Dark to light.
Someone bringing food.
Someone manipulating his leg.
He barely noted those variations.
He recalled a doctor coming in and talking about post-traumatic stress and using words like elective mutism .
Even that couldn’t shake him from the listlessness.
Then sometime later—hours, days, he wasn’t sure—he heard heavier footsteps come into the room.
He sensed someone standing behind him, but couldn’t work up the energy to turn and see who.
“Come on, Sam. It’s time to get up.”
His surprise was the impetus he needed to turn. “Grid?”
“So, Romeo, you can talk. Told ’em that Samuel Adams Corner wasn’t a quitter. I was right. Now, get up.”
Sergeant Harrison Gridley was a friend. He’d been there the day . . .
Sam’s momentary spurt of energy evaporated and he sank back into his seat, longing to just go back to staring and not thinking.
“So, that’s it?” Grid was pissed. It didn’t take any special abilities to hear it in his voice.
“You got nothing to say?”
Grid pulled a chair over and moved into Sam’s line of sight.
“Listen, I know this isn’t about your messed-up leg and other injuries. You’re too tough to stop over that.” He paused, as if Sam had answered. “I get it. It hurts. Ramsey, Smith, Johnson, Lyle, and Lennon. Their names are part of me. They always will be. I miss them, too, but you can’t just stop because of it.”
He stood, pushed back the chair, and got the walker that stood in the corner.
“Your PT guy said you should be walking. Hell, Sam, you should be talking and getting on with your life.”
Grid reached down and threw the brakes on Sam’s wheelchair. “Come on.”
Sam couldn’t make himself reach for the walker.
“That’s it? You’re going to just stop? All those guys who didn’t get a choice, who aren’t going home, who will never hug their moms or their girls again, and you’re just going to give all that up willingly? I thought you were brave, Sam, but you’re not. You’re a coward.”
He turned and walked toward the door. Then turned again. “You’re dishonoring the boys—you’re dishonoring every man who fought over there and will never have a chance to come home and live their life.”
Grid left before Sam could try and find the words to tell him that he didn’t understand. Grid was right—it wasn’t Sam’s leg; it was . . . everything. A huge weight had settled over him. Grid was wrong; Sam didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t the pain of his injuries, but the pain of those losses.
He sat in the wheelchair, staring at the walker. He wished he could go back to just staring out the window. He wished that Grid hadn’t come and disturbed his peace.
No, peace wasn’t the right word.
But he didn’t have the energy to figure out what the word would be.
“Inertia,” Sam said.
I nodded. I got that. More than most people would.
“Every day Grid came to visit and pushed and prodded. He had the therapist show him what to do, and then he did it. Over and over. He twisted my leg. He pulled at it, stretching the damaged muscles. But more than that, he twisted me and pulled me from wherever it was I’d been hiding . . .”
Two weeks after Grid arrived, he sat across from Sam.
“Do you remember that night they served hot dogs and you started rhapsodizing about Smith Hot Dogs? They’re a western Pennsylvania thing, and you went on and on about how no other hot dogs could
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