The earliest the military medical system could approve the procedure was weeks out. Weeks I didn’t have. The PA lowered her voice. “If you can do this off-base,” she said carefully, “you should.”
“How much?” I asked. She wrote the number on a scrap of paper and slid it across the metal tray. Five thousand dollars. That was just the upfront cost, the down payment on being able to walk normally again.
That night, I sat on the edge of my bunk, my leg wrapped in thick gauze, my boot on the floor like an abandoned shell. Around me, the barracks were loud—laughter, music, someone yelling over a video game. Life going on.
I stared at my phone for a long time before I called home. My father answered on the third ring. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, cheerful, distracted. I could hear something metallic in the background. Tools, maybe. Or the television.
“Dad,” I said. My voice sounded steadier than I felt. “I got hurt. It’s bad.” He listened as I explained. I kept it clinical. Injury, surgery, timeline, cost. I told him I’d pay it back. I told him I just needed help now.
There was silence. Then a familiar sound—the exhale he always made before saying no. “We just bought the boat,” he said. “You know that. The timing is terrible.”
I closed my eyes. “It’s my leg,” I said. “If I don’t do this, I might not walk right again.”
“Well,” he replied, “you’re young. You’ll adapt.”
My mother picked up the extension. She always did that when things got uncomfortable. “Honey,” she said softly. “Maybe this is a lesson. You chose this career. You chose the risks. A limp will teach responsibility.” She added it as if she were talking about a parking ticket.
Then my sister’s voice cut in, bright and amused. “Relax,” she said. “You always figure things out. You’re the tough one, remember?” She laughed. Actually laughed. I looked down at my leg, at the blood soaking through the gauze, staining the clean white into something ugly and real. I thought of the doctor’s word: Permanent.
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