I’m pretty sure I’m not just another caretaker. Thing is, I don’t know what I am.

“I can keep a one-sided conversation going for a long time,” I press on, quickly trying to move us away from the charged moment. “Let’s see, I was born on August thirtieth, which means that my birthstone is peridot, which is a fancy word for ugly green. And speaking of color, this hair color? So not natural. I mean, I was one of those adorable blond toddlers, but it all went mouse brown right about the time I started third grade, and I’ve been adjusting it ever since. I got my first period when I was—”

“Okay!” he interrupts. “I cave. You give me an hour and a half of silence now, and I’ll eat dinner with you later, but we can’t talk during that either.”

“No deal. I’ll give you one hour of quiet time now, but we talk at dinner.”

He takes a small sip of Scotch and studies me. “You’re annoying.”

I start to argue that annoying has never been one of my personality traits. I’ve always been more in the polite, mellow, and shy category. I always say the right thing at parties, I respect other people’s boundaries, and I dodge controversial topics like they’re land mines. But there’s something about him that’s brought out this other version of myself. I kind of like it.

I shrug, refusing to apologize. Besides, the old, sweet Olivia would get stomped on by this guy.

“So do you know who Andrew Jackson is?” I ask, pulling my legs beneath me and curling into the soft black leather of the chair.

“Yes, I know who Andrew Jackson is. Old Hickory.”

Old what? “Whatever,” I say. “Have you heard of this book? It’s called American Lion, and—”

“Olivia,” he says mildly, turning the page of his book, “that hour of silence is effective immediately.”

I sigh. Guess I’ll actually have to read this book intend of talk about it. So disappointing.

“Okay,” I say as I open to the foreword. “But you should know that I plan to eat very, very slowly at dinner.”

I ignore his groan as I settle in to read about this Old Hickory guy. And maybe sneak a few glances at the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.

CHAPTER TEN

Paul

It’s hot. So f**king hot, but I’m not even aware of it. None of us are, because it’s always hot, and not worth complaining about because there are bigger things to worry about, like the helicopter that went down last week or the Humvee that didn’t return to base last night.

The best you can do is ignore the heat, play football with your friends when you can, and pray to any god, spirit, or deity you can think of that you’ll be one of the lucky ones.

Then Williams breaks the code.

We’re out on standard patrol, and he breaks the damn code.

“I f**king hate it here.”

I’m in the process of mentally thinking about what the hell I’m supposed to write to Ashley, my girlfriend back home, but my brain skids to a halt at Williams’s outburst. Garcia and Miller stop bastardizing whatever outdated Jay-Z song they were attempting to sing and stare at Williams with a mixture of dismay and disgust.

Alex Skinner, my best friend since boot camp, just looks pissed. “Goddamn it, Williams.”

Greg Williams merely shrugs. Of all of us, he’s the smallest, but he’s damned fast. And smart. At least I thought so until he broke the f**king code.

“Don’t start that,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “You know the second we start acknowledging that we are in fact, living the shit life, that’s the second our luck runs out.”

“I’m just saying. This f**king blows. The sand, the heat, the constant fear of being sent home in a box. You all know it.”

Skinner leans forward to get in Williams’s face. “We all knew that getting into it. This isn’t some glorified World War I bullshit where we didn’t know what to expect.”

Williams shoves at Skinner’s shoulder, and I place an arm between them before the two hotheads make a shitty situation shittier.

“I’m allowed to say what I think,” Williams grumbles, shaking both of us off and staring down at his hands. “I’m allowed to say what we’re all thinking. There ain’t no f**king curse that’s going to come because I spoke the truth.”

Less than ten minutes later, we find out he’s wrong.

Williams gets sent home in a box.

So do the rest of them.

Suddenly time both speeds up and slows down, and a second later I’m on the ground holding on to Alex, and he’s trying to talk but the only thing that comes out of his mouth is blood.

There’s too much blood. Mine. His. It’s all one bitter, metallic mess.

I try to understand what Alex is telling me. I try to understand his dying wish, try to comprehend his last word, but there’s too much blood.

There’s always too much damned blood.

It’s not the first time I’ve woken up in a pool of sweat.

But it’s the first time since those early days in the hospital that someone’s been there when I wake up.

I don’t remember the nurses well, but I’m pretty sure none of them looked like Olivia Middleton, kneeling on my bed, wearing only a tiny white T-shirt and pink boxer shorts. What is it with her and pink?

And then I comprehend that she’s here. In my bedroom.

I comprehend why she’s here.

The dream. I was yelling, and she came to find out why.