Three weeks later, in the military rehabilitation ward.
Outside the window, the trees were budding again, a thin veil of green softening the hard lines of the barracks. Spring wind slipped in through the half-open window, carrying with it a trace of warmth that felt almost foreign after so much cold.
Matthew Powell reclined against the raised head of the bed. The bandages on his body had been reduced piece by piece; there was finally some color back in his face.
But his breathing was weaker than before—quieter, shallower.
Every day he followed the doctors’ instructions and completed his rehab routines. From the outside, he looked like any other injured soldier working his way back from the edge.
Only he knew the truth—
When the hospital fell silent at night, when the monitors in the
