There was silence. Then a familiar sound—the exhale he always made before saying no.
“We just bought the boat,” he said. “You know that. The timing is terrible.”
I closed my eyes. “It’s my leg,” I said. “If I don’t do this, I might not walk right again.”
“Well,” he replied, “you’re young. You’ll adapt.”
My mother picked up the extension. She always did that when things got uncomfortable. “Honey,” she said softly. “Maybe this is a lesson. You chose this career. You chose the risks. A limp will teach responsibility.” She added it as if she were talking about a parking ticket.
Then my sister’s voice cut in, bright and amused. “Relax,” she said. “You always figure things out. You’re the tough one, remember?”
She laughed. Actually laughed.
I looked down at my leg, at the blood soaking through the gauze, staining the clean white into something ugly and real. I thought of the doctor’s word: Permanent.
“I understand,” I said.
And I did. Completely.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t argue. I hung up the phone and sat there in the noise of the barracks, feeling something inside me settle into place. Cold. Clear.
Two days later, I was back in my tiny off-base apartment, moving on crutches. Every step was a reminder of what was at stake. The pain meds dulled the edge, but not the fear. I ran numbers over and over in my head—credit cards, payday loans, anything that could buy me time.
There was a knock at the door.
I opened it to find my brother standing there. Grease-stained jacket, dark circles under his eyes. He worked at a mechanic shop outside town—sixty hours a week, minimum wage, hands permanently scarred.
