[November 14, 2009 - 6:47 PM]
The bus shuddered to a stop outside the Two Whales Diner. Through the rain-streaked window, Jay could see the warm glow of the interior, the familiar shape of his mother moving between tables. His fingers twitched toward the pull cord—then stopped.
Not yet.
The doors hissed shut, and the bus lurched forward again.
[7:02 PM]
Jay stepped down onto the wet asphalt, his prosthetic foot landing with an awkward clunk. He set his duffel bag down first, then the suitcase, adjusting the strap of his leg through his jeans with a grimace. The rain had lightened to a mist, clinging to his Marine-issue jacket.
He tugged his cap lower over his eyes before picking his bags back up. The medals on his chest clicked softly as he moved.
———
[7:19 PM]
The place was called The Rusty Anchor, a dimly lit hole-in-the-wall with sticky floors and a jukebox playing classic rock. Jay dropped onto a barstool, his bags leaning against the counter.
The bartender—a grizzled man in his 50s with a salt-and-pepper beard—eyed him as he polished a glass.
"Rough day, soldier?"
Jay shrugged. "Something like that."
The man took in Jay's appearance: the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble, the way his right leg stuck out slightly at an unnatural angle. He nodded toward the medals. "What'll it be?"
Jay hesitated. "...Brandy."
The bartender poured two fingers into a glass and slid it over. "First one's free. For your service."
"Thanks." Jay took a sip, the burn steadying him. He pulled out his phone, scrolling absently through Facebook—D-Block had posted another gym selfie—before fishing a cigarette from his pack.
"Mind if I—?"
"Kid, this is a bar," the bartender chuckled. "You could set your hair on fire and I wouldn't blink."
Jay lit up, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling.
———
[7:34 PM]
The door swung open with a burst of laughter. Three girls stumbled in, their designer jackets and perfectly curled hair marking them as rich, bored, and definitely underage.
Jay didn't look up until one of them—a blonde with sharp features and a smirk—plopped onto the stool beside him.
"Oh my God, finally someone our age," she said, eyeing him like he was a puzzle to solve. "You look like you've had a week."
Jay took another drag of his cigarette. "Try three years."
The blonde—Victoria, her friend had called her—leaned closer. "So. You're gonna buy us drinks, right?"
"No."
Victoria rolled her eyes. "Ugh, fine. Here." She slapped a fifty on the counter. "You just have to order them. That jacket basically makes you a human ID."
Jay glanced at the bartender, who was already scowling.
"Absolutely not. You girls are—"
"Please?" the brunette—Taylor—cut in, batting her eyelashes. "We'll be so quiet."
The bartender rubbed his temples. "If I get fined because of you—"
"We'll leave if anyone asks!" the third girl—Courtney—promised.
With a grumble, the bartender turned away, muttering about "damn teenagers" as he poured three vodka cranberries.
Victoria smirked, nudging Jay's arm. "See? Not so hard."
Jay didn't respond, but when Victoria's knee "accidentally" brushed against his, he didn't pull away.
She was pretty, sure. Confident in a way that reminded him of the girls who used to hang around base. But right now, all he wanted was another drink.
Victoria, however, had other plans.
"So," she said, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "You gonna tell me your name, or do I have to guess?"
Jay stubbed out his cigarette. "Jason."
"Jason," she repeated, like she was tasting the word. "I like it."
Taylor fake-gagged into her drink. "Oh my God, Vic."
Jay finally cracked a smile.
Maybe coming home wouldn't be so bad after all.
******
[ 8:07 PM]
Half an hour slipped by in a haze of cigarette smoke and Victoria's increasingly unsubtle flirting. The girls had switched from vodka cranberries to cheap white wine, giggling into their glasses like they'd pulled off some grand heist. Jay nursed his second brandy, the warmth in his chest doing little to dull the persistent ache in his leg.
Victoria leaned in, her perfume sharp and expensive. "So, Jason," she drawled, tracing the rim of her glass with a manicured finger. "You ever gonna tell me how a guy like you ends up in a place like this?"
Jay exhaled through his nose, almost amused. "Bus dropped me off."
She rolled her eyes but grinned. "Oh come on. You're like, a war hero or something—"
"Vic, Jesus," Taylor muttered into her drink.
Jay ignored the jab at his medals. He didn't hate the attention—hell, after months of hospital beds and pitying looks, it was almost refreshing to be treated like a person instead of a wounded project. But the wine was gone, the rain had stopped, and his stump was throbbing.
Time to go.
He stood, his prosthetic clicking audibly as he shifted his weight. The girls' laughter died instantly.
Victoria's eyes flicked down, then back up, her smirk faltering for half a second before she recovered. "Well. That explains the limp."
Jay didn't react, just slung his duffel over his shoulder and grabbed his suitcase.
"Wait—" Victoria scrambled for a pen, scribbling on a napkin before shoving it into his free hand. "Call me. Or text. Or, like, carrier pigeon. Whatever."
Jay glanced at the number, then tucked it into his jacket pocket without a word. Victoria gave him a look—somewhere between challenging and hopeful—but he was already turning toward the door.
———
[8:22 PM]
The cold air bit at his face as he stepped outside. His leg ached, the socket rubbing raw against his skin with every step. When the bus rolled up a minute later, he didn't hesitate.
The ride was quiet save for a pack of pre-teens in the back, shrieking over a handheld game. Jay tuned them out, staring at his reflection in the dark window. The streetlights flickered past, painting his face in streaks of orange and shadow.
Home.
The word didn't feel real yet.
———
[8:47 PM]
He got off two stops early, unable to stomach the thought of rolling up to his house like some lost tourist. The walk was short, but every step sent a jolt up his thigh.
The Price house came into view—porch light on, curtains open. Through the window, he could see Joyce wiping down the kitchen counter.
Jay stopped at the foot of the driveway, suddenly unsure.
Three years. One leg. No idea what to say.
He took a breath.
And walked forward.
———
Jay stood on the porch, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his prosthetic leg humming with a dull ache from the walk. The house looked the same—peeling blue paint, the faint glow of the kitchen light bleeding through the curtains. He could hear the TV murmuring inside.
He knocked.
Footsteps. The door swung open.
Joyce froze.
For a heartbeat, she just stared, her eyes flicking from his face to the medals on his jacket, to the way he stood slightly off-balance. Then—
"Oh my God—Jay!"
Her voice cracked. She lunged forward, pulling him into a crushing hug before he could react. He stiffened for a second—years of combat reflexes making him wary of sudden movements—but then he melted into it, his arms wrapping around her.
She smelled like dish soap and the lavender detergent she'd always used.
"I—I didn't know you were coming home!" she stammered, pulling back just enough to cup his face in her hands. Her eyes were wet. "Look at you! You're—"
Her gaze dropped to his leg.
Jay braced for the pity.
But Joyce just squeezed his shoulder and grabbed his suitcase, ushering him inside. "Come in, come in! You must be exhausted!"
The house was warm, familiar. The same old couch, the same photos on the wall—though one was conspicuously missing.
Jay set his bag down. "Where's Chloe?"
Joyce hesitated. "I… don't know." She sighed, rubbing her temple. "She's been out a lot since your dad—"
She cut herself off, but the name hung in the air anyway.
William.
Jay's throat tightened. "I should've been here."
Joyce shook her head, her voice gentle but firm. "Jay, honey, grief does things to people. You stayed away. She acts out. Neither of you are wrong." She gave him a tired smile. "And don't think I didn't notice those paychecks you sent. That kept us afloat more than you know."
Jay swallowed hard. He hadn't known what else to do.
For the next few hours, they sat at the kitchen table, Joyce plying him with reheated lasagna (his favorite) and peppering him with questions—some about the Marines, most about him. Did he sleep okay? Was he in pain? Did he need anything?
Jay answered in short sentences, but he didn't mind. It was nice, being fussed over.
Finally, Joyce stood, stretching. "Let me show you your room."
She led him upstairs, flipping on the light.
His bedroom was exactly as he'd left it—band posters on the walls, his old skateboard gathering dust in the corner—but cleaner, like Joyce had been keeping it ready for him.
"I dusted every week," she admitted, a little sheepish. "Just in case."
Jay ran a hand over his dresser, the wood smooth under his fingertips. "Thanks, Mom."
She kissed his forehead. "Get some rest. We'll figure everything else out tomorrow."
Then she left, shutting the door softly behind her.
Jay sat on the edge of his bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. He toed off his prosthetic, wincing as the stump was freed from the socket. The skin was red, irritated. He'd pushed himself too hard today.
He lay back, staring at the ceiling.
This was his bed. His room. His home.
For the first time in years—maybe since before boot camp—Jay closed his eyes, and slept.
———
Jay's body jerked violently in his sleep, his fingers clawing at the sheets as if fighting off invisible hands. His breathing came in ragged gasps, his muscles coiled tight.
In his nightmare, he was back in Helmand.
And just when the IED exploded—
Jay shot upright, a strangled cry tearing from his throat. His chest heaved, sweat soaking through his shirt. For a disoriented second, he reached for his rifle—then remembered.
Home. Bed. Safe.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, forgetting for a split second that one of them ended at the knee. His stump hit the floor with a dull thud, sending a jolt of pain up his thigh. He hissed through his teeth, gripping the mattress until the wave passed.
With a shaky hand, he wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket before shrugging it off and tossing it to the foot of the bed. The bedside lamp flicked on, casting long shadows across the room.
He unzipped his duffel bag, fingers finding the small orange bottle of oxycodone buried under his clothes. He dry-swallowed one, grimacing at the bitter taste.
Next came the med kit—neatly packed with gauze, antiseptic, and a roll of soft moleskin cloth specially fitted for his stump. He peeled back the liner of his prosthetic, inspecting the skin beneath.
Not bad. The scarring was healed, though still angry red in places. He dabbed antiseptic on a tender spot, wrapped the moleskin snugly around the stump, then carefully reattached the prosthetic. The click of the locking mechanism was oddly comforting.
Last, he pulled out his custom-carved cane—a gift from D-Block before he'd left Germany. The dark wood was etched with the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor, along with the words "Walk It Off, Hero" in block letters. Jay smirked, despite himself.
He moved quietly through the house, the cane taking most of his weight. The bathroom light flicked on, and he splashed cold water on his face, staring at his reflection in the mirror.
Dark circles. Hollow eyes. A stranger's face.
He exhaled and crept downstairs, avoiding the creaky third step out of habit. The back door opened with a soft click, and the chilly night air hit him like a slap.
The porch steps were damp from earlier rain, but he sat anyway, tilting his head back to the sky. The stars were sharp and bright here—not like in the desert, where they'd been blurred by dust and gun smoke.
Three faces flickered in his mind:
Merwin, grinning as he recorded that stupid video.
His father, hands stained with motor oil, laughing at some dumb joke.
Reaper, staring at him with those calm, knowing eyes.
Jay's breath hitched.
Then the tears came.
Silent at first, then shaking his shoulders as he pressed the heel of his palm against his mouth to stifle the sob.
The door creaked open behind him.
"Jay?"
Joyce's voice was soft, sleep-roughened. She didn't wait for an answer, just sat beside him on the step, her arm slipping around his shoulders.
He didn't pull away.
"I'm sorry," he choked out.
She shook her head, pulling him closer. "Don't you dare."
For a long time, they just sat there, watching the stars.
Finally, Joyce sighed. "You wanna talk about it?"
Jay wiped his face with his sleeve. "Not really."
She nodded. "Okay."
And that was enough.