Hudson slides his hands under the bed, and the mattress lifts. My leg jerks with the promise of pain.
“Whoa. Okay. I’m getting up. I didn’t think you’d really do it.”
I swing my leg over and slide off the bed, and Hudson thankfully doesn’t look at the stump, wrapped in bandages.
He steadies the wheelchair next to the bed. “You got me through BUD/s; I’ll get you through this.”
I almost admire his determination, but he hasn’t gotten it yet. There is no getting through this. I’ve lost the only thing I was good at—being a SEAL. What else is there for me?
But he looks so damn pleased that I’m sitting up that I don’t want to ruin his good mood. Not today, anyway.
I pull myself into the wheelchair and glance up at Hudson. He watches me with his arms folded across his chest.
“Well, come on then. Let’s go.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Dude, no offense, but you stink. When’s the last time you showered?”
My gaze shifts to the open door leading to the bathroom. There’s a rail and stool set up in the shower. At Louisville, the nurse helped me shower. He was a large, rough dude who scrubbed me with professional efficiency as he chatted about the latest baseball game.
Moving to this facility was supposed to signal my independence, but I haven’t been in the shower since I arrived three days ago.
I shrug, not wanting to admit that to Hudson.
“Go on, then.” He indicates the bathroom with a jerk of his head. “Don’t make me come in there and scrub your balls for you.”
I roll the chair into the bathroom, close the door, and let out a long sigh. The sooner I shower and take this jaunt with Hudson, the sooner he’ll leave me alone.
It takes longer than I’d like to haul myself onto the seat the way the nurse showed me. My upper body wasn’t damaged in the explosion, but the washcloth feels heavy, and by the time I’ve washed myself down, I’m panting.
I left my clothes in the other room, so I wheel myself out to find Hudson sitting in the chair by the door. He’s scrolling through his phone like he’s got all the time in the world to wait for his sorry-ass friend who can barely dress himself.
“Feel better?” he asks.
The meds have kicked in, bathing me in a soft haze and taking the edge off reality. I do feel better, but I don’t want to tell him that. Instead, I grunt.
Getting dressed is awkward, and by the time I get my pants on, I’m sweating and in need of another shower. The fabric rubs against the stump, but it keeps the stump covered. I’m not going out with my stump visible. No one wants to see that shit. I lean back in the chair, panting, and Hudson glances up at me.
He could come over and give me a hand, but he doesn’t, and I don’t know whether I hate or appreciate him for that. Instead, I struggle into a t-shirt.
Finally, I’m ready.
Hudson stands up and pockets his phone. “Let’s go.”
It’s the first time I’ve left my room since arriving at Jake’s Retreat. The veterans center was set up in honor of Jake, a local SEAL who didn’t make it back. Joel, a retired SEAL commander, runs the place, and Hudson helps out. It’s not officially open yet, and all the buildings look shiny and new.
The paths are wide with gentle gradients, but even so, I’m sweating with the exertion of pushing the chair. Weeks lying in a bed have softened my muscles, the injury making me useless in more ways than one.
We pass a slick building with tinted windows and fresh paint
“The gym’s in there,” Hudson says. “They’ve got adapted equipment, which you’d know if you went to your therapy sessions.”
I’ve missed them for the past few days, but I get the feeling that’s about to end.
“You’re booked in after lunch, and I told the physio I’d personally deliver you myself.”
“I’m not going.” I’d rather crawl back to bed than have some stranger frown over my missing leg.
“Doctors orders, I’m afraid, or you risk losing your veteran’s insurance.”
