PART 7
“What did he do tonight?” I asked.
Walter answered for her.
“He was drunk. Angry. He found us packing.”
“Packing for where?”
Walter reached inside his soaked coat and pulled out a small plastic bag.
Inside was a folded photograph.
A young woman in Navy uniform smiled beside a much younger Walter and June.
My breath stopped.
I knew that face.
The kitchen seemed to tilt beneath me.
“Where did you get this?” I asked.
June looked up.
“Our daughter,” she said. “Emily Bennett.”
I set my mug down slowly.
Lieutenant Emily Bennett.
Navy corpsman.
Helmand Province.
She was twenty-six when she dragged me behind a blown wall with shrapnel in my leg and blood in my throat.
She kept pressure on the wound while rounds snapped over us.
She looked me dead in the eye and said, “You do not get to die on my shift, Carter.”
Three weeks later, she was gone.
I had carried that guilt for eleven years.
“You knew Emily?” Walter asked.
I could not speak at first.
Then I nodded.
“She saved my life.”
June covered her mouth.
Walter closed his eyes.
Then June reached into the plastic bag and pulled out an old envelope.
My handwriting was on it.
May you like
Ryan Carter.
The letter I wrote after I came home.
