REHABILITATION
Fort Liberty, North CarolinaThree Weeks After Mosul
Logan's alarm went off at 0530 and he wanted to throw it across the room. His body ached in ways that went beyond the injuries. The kind of deep, bone-level exhaustion that came from pushing too hard for too long. But he dragged himself out of bed anyway because that's what the schedule said. Physical therapy at 0630. No excuses. No delays.
The cast on his arm was heavy. Awkward. Made simple things like getting dressed into exercises in frustration. He'd learned to compensate, to use his good hand for everything, but it still took twice as long as it should have. By the time he was dressed in PT gear and ready to go, it was 0600 and his ribs were already protesting the movement.
Bulldog was waiting in the parking lot, leaning against his truck with two cups of coffee. He handed one to Logan without comment. They'd fallen into this routine over the last two weeks. Bulldog showed up. Logan didn't complain about needing a ride. They drove to the medical center in comfortable silence and pretended this was normal.
"How'd you sleep?" Bulldog asked as they pulled out.
"Fine."
"Liar."
Logan didn't argue. The nightmares had started four days after they'd brought him back. Waking up in the middle of the night convinced he was still in that cell. Still zip-tied to a chair. Still listening to Nazari's voice promising that the Syrians were coming. The therapist said it was normal. Said it would fade with time and treatment. Logan wanted to believe her but three weeks in and the dreams were getting worse, not better.
Last night he'd dreamed about the rescue. About Mara coming through that door. Except in the dream she'd looked at him and turned around. Left him there. Walked away while he screamed for her to come back. He'd woken up at 0300 drenched in sweat, his heart pounding, and hadn't been able to fall back asleep.
"You talk to the doc about it?" Bulldog asked.
"Yeah."
"And?"
"And she said it's normal. PTSD. My brain processing trauma. All the clinical explanations that don't make it easier to sleep."
Bulldog was quiet for a moment. "You know it wasn't real, right? The dreams. Mara came back. She got you out. You're here because of her."
"I know." Logan took a drink of coffee. "Doesn't stop my brain from playing what-if scenarios while I'm asleep."
They pulled into the medical center parking lot. The physical therapy wing was in the east building, third floor. Logan had memorized the route. Had walked it so many times in the last two weeks that he could do it in his sleep. Which was ironic considering how little sleep he was actually getting.
The PT room was already occupied when they arrived. Three other soldiers working through their own rehabilitation. A leg amputee on the parallel bars learning to walk with a prosthetic.A guy with a shoulder injury doing resistance training. A woman with a back brace working on core strength. All of them dealing with damage that would take months to fix. All of them pushing through pain because that's what soldiers did.
Logan's physical therapist was a captain named Martinez. Mid-thirties. Former infantry. She knew what it took to get back to operational status because she'd done it herself after an IED in Afghanistan had shattered her femur. She didn't accept excuses and she didn't let him quit when the pain got bad. Logan respected the hell out of her even when he wanted to tell her to back off.
"Morning, Reed," she said, looking up from her clipboard. "How's the pain level today?"
"Manageable."
"On a scale of one to ten."
"Six." It was closer to seven but admitting that meant she'd dial back the intensity and he didn't want that. He wanted to push. Wanted to get back to full strength as fast as possible.
Martinez gave him a look that said she knew he was lying but didn't call him on it. "Alright. Let's start with range of motion on the leg. Then we'll work the arm. I want to see if we can get more flexibility in that shoulder."
The next hour was grinding work. Stretching the leg until the rebuilt muscle screamed in protest. Working the arm through exercises that made the bone ache where it was healing. Pushing past the point where his body wanted to quit because quitting meant staying broken and broken meant not getting back to the team.
Martinez watched him like a hawk, correcting form, adjusting resistance, making sure he didn't push so hard he caused new damage. "You're favoring the ribs. That's going to create compensation patterns that'll cause problems down the line."
"Ribs hurt when I breathe deep."
"So we work on breathing exercises. Expand the lung capacity. Strengthen the intercostals." She handed him a resistance band. "Twenty reps. Slow and controlled. Focus on the exhale."
Logan did the reps. Each breath sending small lances of pain through his chest. Each exhale a reminder that his body wasn't ready yet. Wasn't strong enough. Wasn't back to the standard he needed to be operational.
"Better," Martinez said when he finished. "You're making progress. Not as fast as you want but that's normal. Bone takes time to heal. You rush it, you end up with permanent damage. You play it smart, you get back to full strength."
