Sometimes I see my father’s hand linger over a particular picture, and I think of how George fell into memories the same way. I wonder, then, how much my father hides. If he experienced even a fraction of what George did, it’s devastating.

Maybe someday I will interview him for the Veterans History Project.

When I arrive at the hospital to see Carey, I call my parents to let them know I’m there. Then I call Mrs. Breen.

*   *   *

“Thanks for coming, Sophie,” she says. She meets me in the hospital lobby. She doesn’t look any better than the last time I saw her crying in the hardware store aisle. Black bags droop under her eyes, and she’s lost weight, considering how her clothes hang on her tiny frame.

“I’m not sure I’ll be of any help,” I warn. “You shouldn’t expect much.”

She shrugs. “Then we’ll be no worse off than before.”

We stand awkwardly waiting for the elevator. I used to love this woman, but now we can hardly look at each other.

“You seem different,” she says finally as we’re walking down the hall.

“I am different,” I say, and it’s true. I’m not the Quinn she used to know. That girl died, and Sophie was born out of her ashes.

We reach Carey’s room, and I stop outside the doorway. After driving all this way, suddenly I’m scared. I’m not sure this is the right thing to do. I back away, losing my nerve. More than scared, I’m ashamed, I realize. I kept Carey’s secret, but he’s given so much more than me. He chose to risk his life for his country, even though he had to hide a huge part of himself.

“Sophie?” she asks, concerned.

“He hasn’t wanted to see me before. What makes you think he’ll want to now?”

Mrs. Breen gives me a piercing look. “He’s been asking for you since they found him.”

I stare at her in shock.

She sighs. “When I first saw that picture of you, I couldn’t believe you would do that to Carey. The way the two of you were together—I thought you would always be that way. As his mother, I was selfishly glad that you would always be there for him. I hated you for hurting him. So I lied to him. I told him you didn’t want to see him.”

I open my mouth and close it three times when the only things I can think to say are all curses. As angry as I’d been with Carey, I would never have refused to see him.

Mrs. Breen stops me. “I know I made a mistake. I thought he would get past it, but once he told us what you did for him, I . . .”

She folds her hands, twisting her fingers until they form a white knuckled knot. This is where a bigger person might forgive her. Maybe go so far as to comfort her. I am not that person. I pull away from her touch. I want to throw up. What must Carey have thought when she told him that lie?

“Go away,” I tell her.

“Sophie . . . ,” she says.

“Don’t worry,” I say coldly. “I’m going to see him. But not for you.”

She backs away from me, and I watch her until she disappears around a corner. I feel mean. I feel angry enough to rip into her. This isn’t how I want Carey to see me, and so I take deep breaths to calm myself.

I square my shoulders and walk into his room.

He doesn’t notice me right away, and I barely hold in my gasp at the changes in him.

Carey always had a laugh waiting on his lips. Now his eyes droop with sadness as he stares unseeing out the window. His mouth pulls down at the corners, and he lies stiff and silent in his bed, with one leg wrapped in a white brace. Below his shorts, there are scars striping both legs, and I wonder what his torturers did to him. The bruises they showed on the news have faded, but everything about him screams BROKEN.

George said you can’t understand what a soldier experiences unless you’ve been through it yourself. The closest you can come is to hear their stories. That’s why it was so important for him to tell them. To help people understand, so maybe they will treat soldiers differently. So people will show soldiers a little mercy and grace when they come home, not as they were, but as strangers taking the place of your loved ones.

Mercy and grace, I think. And maybe it’s time I ask for a little forgiveness, because I’ve taken for granted all that he was willing to give up. Once more, I’m glad that I knew George because, without him, I would not know what to do at this moment.

I step forward.

“Carey?”

He rolls his head to face me, and his brown eyes look dead. Until they focus on me.

“Quinn?” he asks, disbelieving.

I don’t correct him. I don’t need to tell Carey who I am. He knows.

“It’s me,” I say. I drop my purse on the floor and stop by the side of his bed. His hand is cold in mine, and I twine my fingers through his. “I missed you.”

He reaches for me, clamping a hand around my neck to pull me to him, until my forehead rests against his. The desperation in his eyes makes my own water.

“Where have you been?” he asks.

“I thought you didn’t want to see me,” I say.

“I thought you hated me.”

I swallow. “No. I’m sorry about that message I gave your father.” I force a smile. “I love you, stupid.”

Whatever has kept him glued together these past months comes unstuck. Carey falls to pieces in front of me. His shoulders heave, and he buries his face in my neck, grasping my shirt in his fists. He cries like he’ll never stop. This isn’t all about me. It’s like seeing me has released something he’s been holding in.