Bound to Submit

And there went that smile. Kenna didn’t question the effectiveness of physical therapy—the muscles in her residual limb were stronger, which enhanced her ability to control the movement of the prosthetic—it operated in part based on the electrical signals her remaining muscles generated. She also had more mobility in her right shoulder, and her neck and upper back pain had improved a lot.

But physical therapy also left her arm fatigued and her body emotionally drained. And an intense session always seemed to exacerbate her phantom pain for a night or three after.

“It was fine. Good.” Kenna merged into the right lane and turned.

“That’s the same thing you said about your speech,” Sierra said, her tone easy-going but obviously concerned.

Despite the light touch her sister tried to use, the comment still tripped Kenna’s shorter-than-usual temper. “What the hell do you want me to say, Si? That I’m exhausted? That I’m randomly driving around right now to avoid going home because I know the second I lay down the phantom pain will start, and I’ll have to grit my teeth through it all night in order to resist downing more pain killers? Which don’t always work anyway. That I’m terrified that the pain will never go away and I won’t be able to carry it, and I’m terrified that it will go away and how can I deserve that when George is dead? That every time I give a speech it makes the fear worse because now all these fucking people think I’m some kind of hero which means when I finally crash and burn they’ll all know I never deserved their praise and applause in the first place? Is that what you want to hear?” By the time Kenna finished the tirade she was breathing hard and shaking, her eyes dry as always. Why couldn’t she have a good cry and feel better like a normal person?

The phone was quiet long enough that Kenna wondered if she’d dropped the call. And then her sister spoke. “That’s exactly what I want you to say. That and whatever else you’re really feeling. Pull over.”

“What?”

“Pull over. I want you to be safe and you’re driving upset right now.”

On a huff, Kenna made her way to the side of the street and parked illegally in front of a fire hydrant. “Okay,” she whispered, smoothing her hands over her black dress pants.

“I’m not a stranger, Kenna. You don’t have to put on an act for me. I’d know you weren’t in a good place even if you did so don’t waste your energy on it. I’d love for you to talk to me, but you don’t even have to do that. You can just be silently miserable with me if you want. Or you can rant at me. Whatever you need, I’ll do for you. And if you don’t know what that is, I’ll just be with you until you figure it out.” Another long pause. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Kenna said.

“Do you want to talk about any of what you just said?” Sierra asked.

Kenna gave a humorless chuckle. “Nooo.”

“Fine. But I will say this, I didn’t know Georgia as good you did, obviously, but I knew her well enough to know she would kick your ass for torturing yourself about her death. And you know that’s true. Even if you can’t feel it yet, you have to know it. She would not have wanted you beating yourself up on her behalf. She would’ve hated that for you.”

A squeezing pang tugged in the center of her chest. Georgia Kern had been Kenna’s friend from the first day of basic training, and they’d quickly become close. “I know that’s true, but I...” She shook her head, the sadness of the loss washing through her for the millionth time.

“I know,” her sister said.

Kenna and Georgia, or Ken and George as everyone had quickly taken to calling them, had both volunteered for the Female Engagement Teams, or FETs, small, specially trained groups who served alongside male infantry units in the Middle East. In their FET, they’d worked as cultural advisors and liaisons, communicating especially with the women and families their units encountered. She and Georgia had loved their jobs, loved being central to the mission of the infantry units, loved getting to serve in such a fundamental and intense way.