Snowbound

The women in his family seemed to know how to

make him cry. But—funny thing—each time, the tears

seemed to cleanse him of bitterness and remind him of

a humanity he’d feared he no longer possessed.

“THE DAY YOU GOT HURT.”

Until this moment, John couldn’t have said what

color the counselor’s eyes were. They weren’t startling

in any way. But damn could they pin him to his chair

like a butterfly on a board.

Blue, he realized. They were a washed-out blue. To

go with an ordinary face, brown hair, a body average in

build and height and a rumpled sport shirt tucked into

wrinkled khakis.

The guy didn’t believe in leading gently up to the

hard part. Say, a week from now. Maybe use this first

session to get to know John, to exchange war stories.

No, he’d asked a few brisk questions. What unit?

How much action had he seen? How many friends had

died?

Ten minutes, tops. Now he looked at John and said,

“The day you got hurt. What’s your most vivid memory? Just a snapshot.”

John felt like a phobic in a dentist’s chair waiting for

the drill to descend. Pretending he was just fine, when

his body was rigid. God, he wanted to bolt.

Fiona, he thought desperately. Fiona.

Drawing a shallow breath, he said, “Blood dripping

down a soccer ball. Lying there wondering why it

hadn’t popped.”

“When you wake up at night screaming, what are

you trying to do?”

He started to shove up from his chair. “How the hell

do you know? Did Liz tell you…?” He stopped, feeling

foolish. “You had your own nightmares.”

“We all have nightmares.” His expression was kind.

“Even veterans who aren’t suffering from PTSD

have ’em. It’s the mind’s way of processing traumatic

memories.”

He sank back into the chair, but didn’t let go of the

arms. “Mine doesn’t process them. It’s stuck replaying.”

A nod. “Like a vinyl record with a scratch. Why do

you think you’re here?”

Trying to joke, to lighten the mood, John said, “Because my little sister bullied me into it?”

“If that’s the only reason, we shouldn’t be wasting

our time.” Apparently Brian Lehr—that was his name—

didn’t have a sense of humor.

Fiona.

“Because of the scratch.” He had to clear his throat.

“Because I must be damaged.”

Lehr nodded. “So let’s back up. What are you yelling

when you wake up?”

The Arabic word sounded alien when he said it.

“Run,” he translated. “I was trying to warn them.”

“Them?”

“The kids.” He closed his eyes, but opened them

quickly, unable to bear the scene playing behind his

eyelids. “The boys.”

“How many?”

“Eleven. It…varied. Eleven that morning.”

The voice was both gentle and relentless. “And one

of them had a soccer ball?”

“Most of them did. Afterward…” He swallowed. “I

just saw the one.”

“They were going to practice? Play a game?”

His chest hurt. “Pickup game. The other team hadn’t

shown up yet.”

“How old were they?”

Were. That was the operative word. Six dead. Four

maimed, lives over for all practical purposes. Only one,

had walked away unharmed.

“Fourteen, fifteen.”

“You saw them regularly.”

Breathe, he told himself.

“Couple times a week.”

“You play soccer yourself, back here in the States?”

“Yeah. Youth, high school, college.”

“Natural that a soccer game would draw you.”

Lehr didn’t get it, John thought incredulously. He

imagined this soldier exchanging a few words with the

boys when he happened by.

“What did you see that made you shout the warning?”

“I don’t know if I did shout it. It was in my mind.

But…things happened fast.”

“There’s the scratch,” the counselor murmured. “You

feel like you failed because you didn’t warn them.”

As if John hadn’t figured out that one himself. But