CHAPTER ONE
CREEK
On a good day, driving into the city of San Francisco was a major pain in the ass. Today was not a good day.
I checked my watch again, even though it couldn’t have been more than two minutes since the last time I’d looked. Sixteen years in the Army had left me with an uncanny ability to gauge how much time had passed. Well, it had left me with a hell of a lot more than that, but that wasn’t something I wanted to spend too much time thinking about.
I had more urgent problems, like the fact that if this traffic didn’t start moving soon, I’d be late for my appointment at the rehabilitation center. I had fifteen minutes left, and the odds of getting there on time were not in my favor.
Kent, my PT guy, was a pretty relaxed dude, but I hated being late. Another Army leftover, no doubt. Nash, who’d been my NCO for the last ten years or so and our company leader the last few years, had run a tight ship, and tardiness had not been tolerated.Not by me as platoon leader either.
Why the fuck had I let the Army send me to a rehab facility in the city? I couldn’t even put the blame on anyone else there. They’d recommended one closer to my home, but the waiting list had been three extra months, and I hadn’t wanted to wastemore time. I wanted my life back, dammit, or at least something resembling a life.
Now, I wished I’d followed their recommendation because doing this commute three times a week was sheer hell. Then again, hell had many shades and levels, as I had discovered firsthand, and they all sucked in equal measure. Hence the wordhell.
Shit, I needed to put a stop to this pity party before it got out of hand. No one wanted to be around a guy who was bitter and complaining all the time, and I was only one angry rant away from Nash kicking my metaphorical ass. He had zero pity for me—he’d made that crystal clear. While I resented the hell out of that on my darkest days, in my better moments, I realized I was lucky to have someone in my life who didn’t sugarcoat stuff and was always the first to hold up that proverbial mirror to me.
Oh, thank the lord and pass the butter, traffic was finally moving again. We still weren’t going above forty, but at least we were moving, so I’d take it. Learning to drive with my left foot had been a bit of an adjustment, but I’d managed quickly enough once my car had been outfitted with a left-foot accelerator. Kinda hard to hit the gas with a foot that was no longer there, though that didn’t stop me from trying at times. Muscle memory was a fascinating concept, especially when said muscles were no longer attached to a lower limb.
I made it to the rehab center with one minute to spare, and for once, luck was with me as I found an accessible parking spot near the front entrance. They had twenty there—which made sense considering their patients—but that still didn’t mean one was always available. I’d hauled my ass from the back of the lot more than once on my crutches. Not fun.
By the time I made it to the front desk, I was panting a little. I’d been in prime physical fitness for over fifteen years, and nowthat little trek from my car to here had me out of breath. So fucking frustrating.
“Sergeant Middleton. Erm, Creek Middleton, I mean.”
“Kent is waiting for you in the PT room, but take your time,” Claudia, the friendly receptionist, said. She always had a smile for everyone, which was as admirable as it was annoying. I’d developed an allergy for eternally sunny people. Or maybe my allergy was to fakeness. Same difference. Nobody could or should bethathappy all the time.
I hobbled to the dressing room, where I had a locker assigned to store my personal belongings, meager as they were. I traveled light, in this case only bringing my prosthesis. I wasn’t allowed to wear it coming in yet. It had only been fitted two weeks prior, so I was still getting used to it. And as much as I’d told myself I would beat the average of five months to learn to fully use it, I’d quickly discovered that nothing about this was easy. It hurt. A lot. And my body didn’t seem to know what to do with it.
I’d expected to, I dunno, strap it onto my stump and learn to walk with it. Shouldn’t take too long, right? After all, I’d always had excellent coordination. However, after three sessions, I was only able to stand and walk short stretches between the parallel bars. How pitiful was that progress?
Kent said taking it slow was important so I didn’t irritate the stump too much, but that felt like overcautious BS to me. I could take the pain. Fuck knew I’d had far worse.
But arguing with Kent got me nowhere, I’d already found out, so whatever. I’d abide by his wishes, though I absolutely reserved the right to fucking piss and moan about it.
I dumped my wallet in my locker and closed it, then made my way to the PT room.
Kent wanted me to put my prosthesis on while he watched so he could make sure I did it correctly. The dude meant well, but he was seriously anal about the small stuff. On a good day,I could appreciate his attention to detail. On a bad day, not so much. And good days had been scarce the last few months.
The PT room was empty, thank god, though why it bothered me for people to see me putting my prosthesis on, I didn’t know. It just did. Even though most folks here had some kind of injury, I hated looking at it myself, let alone having others take a peek. Not that anyone ever did, or not that I’d noticed anyway. It was probably all in my head.
“Hey,” I called out to Kent.
“Hey, Creek.” He immediately walked over, and fuck, he made it look so easy on his prosthetic leg. How long had it taken him to get there? Maybe I should ask him sometime. “Good to see you. How are you feeling today?”
“Good. Nothing special.”
“Okay. Why don’t you sit down and put it on?”
I sat on a bench and took a deep breath, as always having to push myself through my reluctance to deal with all this. The shrinker—a thick, elastic, compressive stocking that helped reduce the amount of edema in my stump—came off first. I checked the stump on every side, using a small hand mirror for the bottom. I’d been taught to always be on the lookout for any signs of wounds or infections.
Everything looked good. Ugly as hell with all the angry scars but no sign of trouble. Always a relief after reading horror stories about infected stumps. Not on my watch.
I carefully rolled the sock over my stump, making sure it was pulled tight so nothing could rub or cause irritation, then pulled the liner over it. This part still hurt, and I winced as I checked it on every side, ensuring it was snug and pulled up far enough. The pain was nowhere near as bad as it had been at first, but unpleasant was still too mild of a term.
“How painful is that?” Kent asked.
“About a three.”
