“Do you need a paper bag to breathe into?” she asks.

I chuckle. “Maybe in a minute.”

“Tell me about that day,” she says.

I shake my head. “I can’t talk about it.”

“Why not?” she whispers.

“Because it hurts to go back there,” I admit. I’d rather stay numb.

“They all died?” she asks softly.

I nod.

“How many were there?” She adjusts the blanket so that it touches more of me, and I feel her feet slide beneath my thigh. I smile. I like that. I like it way more than I should.

“There were ten of us,” I say.

“What were their names?”

My chest aches like a bitch now, and my throat hurts because I have a lump in it that I can’t swallow past. When I look over at her, her eyes shimmer with unshed tears. Fuck. I made her sad. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t burden you with this.”

“Burden me,” she says, laughing lightly. It’s a tinkling noise, pleasant like wind chimes on a windy day on my grandma’s porch. “It’s not like I have anywhere else to be.”

I think back. I can still see their faces. I can see what they looked like before and after the explosion. And that’s what haunts me. “There was Jimmy. He was nineteen and he liked to play poker. That boy beat me every time we played.”

She lays the side of her face on the back of the couch and snuggles into the cushions. She yawns. “Who else?” she asks.

“Ron and Bobby and David and John and Bubbah. They were all from Tennessee and they met in Basic.”

“Bubbah?” She snorts.

“He had flaming red hair and his real name was Seamus O’Malley.”

“Bubbah sounds so much better.” She grins, and my chest aches some more.

“Alex was a pain in the ass. He would steal my shower shoes and hide them. He didn’t want to wear them. He just didn’t want me to be able to wear them, either.” I miss his pranks. “Jeff was my brother from another mother. I knew him the longest.”

“Two more?” she asks, holding up two fingers.

I nod. “Rex and Rick. They were like twins. They went everywhere together.”

She nods, her cheek rubbing the couch, and I wish her head were on my chest so I could feel it. I want the feel of her breath on me. Fuck.

“Rick survived the blast with me,” I blurt out.

She picks her head up. “I thought you said everyone died.”

“He was burned, a lot like me, but he picked me up when he realized my leg had been blown off and he carried me over his shoulder.” My gut’s churning and I think I might have to stop to go and throw up. But then she scoots closer to me, and lays her head on my shoulder. She has to pull her feet from under my thigh when she scoots close, so I lift them into my lap, and then I cover her up with the afghan. She settles against me. I can feel her heart beating through the side of her breast, which is pressed against my arm.

“What happened?” she whispers.

My voice cracks, and I struggle to continue. “He got us to safety, but just as we cleared the crossing, he was hit by sniper fire. He fell, and I tried to pick him up and drag him with me, but the medics ran over, and pulled me away. He died, they told me later.” He saved me and then he f**king died. He could have left me lying there. But he didn’t.

I feel wetness on my cheeks and I f**king hate it. Faith doesn’t look up at me. She just lies there and I feel her tears against my shoulder. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to make you cry,” I say. I tip her face up to mine and she looks into my eyes.

“What makes you keep going?” she asks. Her mouth is so close to mine that I can smell the chips she was eating earlier. I lick my lips. I want to kiss her. But I can’t start anything. My days are numbered after all.

“I don’t know that I can keep going,” I admit. “Some days are really hard.”

“How long did it take to learn to use that leg?” she asks. Her hand touches my thigh, and I tighten the muscle.

“A long time.”

She wipes her face on my sleeve and heaves a sigh. I know she saw my wet cheeks, and I don’t care. I don’t know why I don’t. I should. Because men don’t cry, right?

“Men do cry,” she whispers.

Shit. Did I say that out loud?

“If you say so,” I toss out flippantly. I wipe my face.

“Do you ever wonder why you survived?” she asks.

“Only every f**king day,” I grunt. I wasn’t worthy. I wasn’t good enough. It should have been someone else. I didn’t have a mother or a wife or even a girlfriend at home. I was alone, except for them.

“Do you believe in faith?” she asks.

I look down at her. “You mean like in God?”

She shakes her head. “Faith in the knowledge that there’s something bigger than you.” She holds up a finger to stop me when I blow out a breath. I don’t believe in faith or God or predestination or any of that bullshit. Not anymore. “I don’t mean faith that there’s some entity that’s in charge of your life. I mean faith that you are intrinsically connected to other people. That you are never alone, even on your most lonely day.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Imagine it like invisible threads. They connect you to people. Just like you were connected to your parents, until you didn’t have them any more. Then, when you disconnected from them, you still connected with others, like the men on your team. Your threads don’t get broken when you lose someone. You’re connected to that person and the memory of that person forever. But your strings multiply. You add to them, and the new connections become a part of you.”

She’s quiet for a second, and I don’t know what to say because I can see the picture she’s painting in my head, and it’s f**king beautiful. But it’s not real. My strings were cut, and they can’t connect with anyone. Not anymore. I’m so f**king tired of being alone. “Sorry, Faith, but I think that’s bullshit.”

She sits up and takes my face in her hands. “It’s not bullshit,” she says. “So shut the f**k up and connect with me, damn it.”

I shake my head and pull her hands from my face. “I don’t want any connections.”

“Yes, you do. Everyone longs for connections. Why do you think people have sex? One nighters? Because it’s a connection.” She snorts, and my God, it’s the prettiest noise I have ever heard. “Not that I want to have sex with you or anything,” she clarifies, but she’s smiling.

“You want to have sex with me,” I tease, because teasing is easier than forcing myself to feel something real.

“I don’t want anything with you unless you’re able to make a connection.” She sits up and tosses the blanket to the side. “You’re not broken, Daniel. You’re just healing. Once you’re healed, your strings will automatically search for connections again.” She stands up and puts her hands on her hips. “We crave connections, and when you give up on those connections, you may as well be dead.”

I am dead inside.

“You’re so f**king sad that I want to grab on to you and force you to come back to life, but you’re the only one who can do that, Daniel.” She gets up and steps away from me.

“Where are you going?” I ask. I want to catch her hand, thread my fingers through hers, and pull her into my lap so I can hold her. I want to breathe her in. I want to… I can’t. I just can’t.

“To work on your watch,” she says on a heavy sigh. I push to get up, but she shoves my shoulder. “Stay,” she says. “Take a break.” She covers me with the blanket, tucking it around me, taking more care than anyone has with me in a really long time.

“I just need for you to fix my watch, Faith,” I say.

She bites her lips together. “That’s not all you need, Daniel,” she says softly. She presses her lips to my forehead, her breath lingering there, and I feel a f**king sob building inside me. I push her back before it can come out.

“That’s enough,” I grunt.

“I know,” she says. “Thanks for telling me your story,” she says quietly. “I’m very sorry you survived.”

I know what she means. “So am I,” I say.

Faith

I watch him from where I’m sitting across the room, and he’s tormented by his own thoughts and reactions. I want to comfort him, but I don’t think there’s anything I can do for him right now. He settles into the sofa, and he looks so conflicted that I want to crawl in his lap and soften him. But I can’t. He wouldn’t accept it if I tried.

I believe in faith. I believe in love. I believe that there is something bigger than me, and that belief guides my connections with others. It strengthens the strings that hold us all together. I believe in kindness and goodness and light. I can see that Daniel hasn’t let light in for a long time. Where there’s no light, feelings can’t grow.

I can’t be the light that shines on him unless he’s willing to open up and let me in. It doesn’t even have to be me that he lets in, but I hope it’s someone.

He’s asleep now on the sofa. He finally nodded off around two in the morning. I pull the blanket up under his chin like he’s a baby, and he flinches. I try not to wake him, but it looks like his dreams are unpleasant. I’m afraid if I shake him from them that he’ll startle. So, I brush a quick hand across his buzz cut and leave him.

I need to get a shower and get dressed. I’m still in my jammies. I walk upstairs and stick my head in Nan’s room. Granddad has crawled in her hospital bed with her, and she’s curled up with him spooning her. They end up like this most nights. I watch them for a moment and wonder what it’ll be like when she’s gone. How badly will he grieve? How much will he miss her? Will he shut down like Daniel has? Or will he seek comfort from other connections?

I grab a shower and dress warmly in a sweatshirt and jeans, and put on my thickest socks and my boots. There’s still snow on the ground and it can get chilly in the basement. But I want to finish Daniel’s watch. I pour two cups of coffee just in case he’s awake. If he’s not, I’ll just drink them both.

I open the door to the basement and I can hear him snoring softly from the bottom of the steps. He has lifted his feet up on the couch and the blankets are pulled up to his chest. Well, one foot. The other, he has removed and it’s lying on the floor beside him. Apparently, he made himself comfortable when he saw that I was gone.

I work on his watch until the sun comes up, and I drink both the cups of coffee. I can’t get the damn watch to work, and no matter how many times I take it apart, it won’t work on its own power. I don’t know what more I can do. Granddad comes down the stairs and looks at me. His brow lifts. He’s carrying a full pot of coffee. I still haven’t slept from the night before, but I slept some of the day yesterday when Nan was sleeping. She has these crazy sleep cycles.

“You still working on that thing?” he asks quietly as he gets close to me.

I throw my hands up in surrender. “I’ve taken it apart and put it back together more times than I can count,” I explain. “I can’t think of any reason why it won’t work.” I motion him closer. He pours a fresh cup of coffee for me.

Granddad lifts his glasses to his nose and looks down at the watch. “Something is broken, but I’m not sure it’s something you’ll be able to fix, Faithy,” he says. I like it when he adds a silly y to my name. “Sometimes, these things are beyond our control.”

“It hasn’t worked since the blast,” I explain. “The one where he lost his leg and his team.” Granddad looks over at him.

“I didn’t even notice his leg last night,” he says. He blows out a breath. He looks me in the eye. “You want to fix him or the watch?” he asks.

“Oh, stop,” I complain. “It’s only a watch. I just can’t figure out what’s wrong with it.”

“Sometimes they just give up, Faith.” He starts to tinker with the watch. “You remember what that was like, don’t you?” He looks into my eyes and then goes back to the watch. “I’d say this one gave up a while ago.” I feel like Granddad is talking about more than the broken timepiece. He’s talking about the man. And I’m afraid he’s right. “What does he have left to live for?” Granddad asks me quietly. His words aren’t more than a breath in the quiet space.

“Can you fix it?” I ask. “He’s all alone,” I say. I look over at him. He’s stirring.

“You’re never alone, Faithy. You know this.” He looks up at me with a telling glance.

“I know. But sometimes you can feel like you are.”

He looks up at me over the rims of his glasses. “You’re not talking about yourself are you? Because I will have to take you out to the woodshed if you are.”

I roll my eyes. “You don’t have a woodshed, Granddad.”

“You get the idea,” he growls.

“I was talking about him,” I admit. “But he says he’s going to join his team tomorrow. That’s good, right?”

Granddad nods. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Daniel sit up. He scrubs a hand across his hair and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. He pulls his pant leg up and puts his prosthesis back on. Standing up gingerly, he settles his weight onto both limbs. He walks over to us.

“’Morning,” Granddad says. But his attention is on the watch.