Page 6

The ache settles deep in the joint as I start moving again through the trees, rifle hanging loose at my side while morning fog curls low across the mountain. Spring’s finally pushing winter out of Devil’s Peak, but the higher elevations still hold snow in shaded pockets beneath the pines. The air smells like wet earth and cedar, sharp enough to wake a man up properly.

Usually this part settles me.

Tracking.

Quiet.

The mountain breathing around me instead of people talking at me.

Since coming home, it’s the only thing that shuts my head up for a while.

Not therapy.

Not booze.

Not sleep.

Definitely not sleep.

I step over a fallen log, my limp more noticeable this morning thanks to the cold. The scars stretching across both hands pull slightly as I tighten my grip on the rifle, pale and jagged against weathered skin.

IED.

Three seconds.

That’s all it took.

Three seconds and the entire convoy disappeared in fire.

Miller.

Santos.

Walker.

Gone before I even hit the ground.

Sometimes I still hear the screaming when it storms hard enough.

Sometimes I still wake up reaching for men already dead.

The military called me lucky because I survived.

I’ve never agreed with them.

Movement flashes ahead through the trees.

Not the elk.

Too upright.

Too controlled.

I stop immediately, crouching slightly as my focus sharpens.

Woman.

Alone.