Page 88 of The Big Fix

“True.”

“If you think about it, this whole thing, looking for Owen, you were basically put through the same exercise again, of searching for him. Fortunately, this time it only took days to find him, not months.”

Hearing the truth was made easier because of Dante’s voice. It was one of the most alluring things about him, sultry and silvery, one you remembered.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help the first time.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. You were detained, as you recall, and no one reported you missing. Compared to what you went through…”

“Let’s not compare. What’s the point of that?”

He was right. There was none.

“And you and Darius were the ones who got me out of there. No one else was coming,” Dante said, his voice going out on him. “That was a long time ago, but I still remember it so clearly.”

I did too, but I wasn’t about to go back down that road. He’d lost so much weight, and there wasn’t a patch of skin left unmarked. The medic, when we made it to the nearest camp, assured us he wouldn’t live. But I was a major then, and I had enough clout to have him flown to the Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany. The doctors there were far more optimistic, probably since it wasn’t a field hospital.

Dante said, “Let’s not keep a running total of who saved whom.”

“No,” I agreed.

We were quiet for a bit.

“You should go home,” I told him. “You’re not doing anything here but watching me sleep and take my medicine.”

“Well, Dr. Lens did say that the injuries to your legs, stomach, and chest were quite severe, possibly fatal were it not for medical intervention.”

I grunted.

“I heard her tell you that she worked for an NGO while in Syria, so she knows the signs of torture when she sees them.”

The woman was astute, which was why I told her the truth. She agreed to keep all my secrets. She was one of my new favorite people.

“Are the headaches better?”

At first, I had tried to ignore the throbbing in my head, but the pain had increased tenfold, climbing steadily toward excruciating. This was accompanied by vertigo that made it impossible to walk.

Fortunately, that didn’t last. Dr. Lens ran more tests, gave me a CT scan, then an MRI, and determined that between rest and pills, I would recover. This time. But much like NFL quarterbacks who had to retire early from one too many hits to the head, I had to now be careful with mine. My days of being in the field were over. I could oversee from far away, like Darius, but trading punches in the street or barroom brawling was done.

“I haven’t had one in days,” I told him. “Dr. Lens says the headaches should be gone in a couple of months.”

“That’s great news.”

“Yes, it is. So really, you can go home.”

He made a noise.

“It’s been three weeks, quickly going on four,” I reminded him. “I’m safe, no one’s coming, and once I’m cleared, I’m heading out too.”

“Yep,” he agreed with a yawn.

“Your family is missing you.”

“Leave my family out of it.”

“You miss your husband. I know you do. Go home.”

He glanced sideways at me. “We talked. I sent pictures of you. He told me to wait one more week. I plan to listen to him.”