The Better Brother

“That’s all right,” I said, chuckling. “I’m doing just fine on my own right now.”

“Well, a handsome man like yourself wouldn’t have no problems finding you a nice country gal around these parts. If you’re ever looking for one, my granddaughter’s a sight.”

“I’m sure she is, if she looks like you,” I said.

“Damn straight she does. Her mother’s a hoot, though. Gets her sense of it from her.”

“I bet she does.”

“Any luck finding a job?” he asked.

I started picking up the bags and putting them into the cart. “Not really looking for one,” I said.

“Not looking for a job?” he asked.

“I’m retired, sir.”

“Retired? Son, you don’t look any older than thirty.”

“Thirty-two.”

“Then how are you retired?” he asked.

“Military,” I said.

I knew what was coming. It was the sentiment that always came after I said something like that. I had no interest in telling him I was a medic or a doctor or any sort of physician that could help people. That part of my life was behind me. Because the truth was, I didn’t help people. Not on that last tour before I got us the fuck out of there.

I broke every damn promise I ever made to myself on that tour. Decent doctors didn’t do the things I did.

Nope. Those fucking days were behind me.

“Well, son. Thank you for your service. What you’ve given to this country’s a mighty big sacrifice. I want you to know we appreciate it. I appreciate it and I appreciate you.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

I snatched up the last of my groceries and paid in haste. I needed to get back to my cabin. I could already feel the shaking in my hands settling in and I needed to get out from underneath the gaze of others before someone wanted to start a conversation I had no intention of having.

“What happened to your hand there?” I heard Moose ask.

And, of course, before I could catch myself, I turned around.

There was an elderly man at the register, buying himself some chew and a gallon of sweet tea. He was in rugged old jeans and a t-shirt with a coat and his hand was bandaged up. It was swollen and bruised and I could tell by the way his thumb was sitting that it was dislocated. I ran my eyes up his arms, noticing the swelling in his wrist before his arm disappeared underneath his coat.

Then, I caught it. He reached for his wallet to pay for his stuff and his middle finger wouldn’t move.

He’d broken his hand. Probably picking up something he shouldn’t have been and dropping it on himself. He could move his wrist, so it wasn’t shattered, but he couldn’t move his middle finger, which meant one of the main ligaments was being impeded by something leaning up against it.

And it had to have been a broken bone because dislocations didn’t cause the kind of bruising this man had.

Images started flashing around in my mind. Suddenly, the grocery store was flickering in and out. It kept switching from food to darkness. Food to darkness. Food to chains. Food to a basement. I closed my eyes and shook my head before I turned back toward my grocery cart.

I had to get out of here. I had to get out of here before things got out of hand.

I walked out to my truck and tossed everything else into the back. Taking deep breaths, I tried to calm the storm rising in my chest. I could feel my heart hammering against my ribs, threatening to split my sternum as I wheeled the cart over to a gathering point.

By the time I got back to my truck, I was practically in a full-blown run.

I hopped behind the wheel of my truck and cranked the engine. I only had a half tank of gas, but I didn’t fucking care at that point. All I wanted to do was get back up my mountain. Get back to my quiet space where no one could see me. There, I could sweat and scream and rage all I wanted. There I could chop wood to dispel my anger and toss myself around in bed without anyone next to me.