Dr. Lila Ortiz drove around in an old Honda Civic that had definitely seen better days, kinda like her life in general. At 34, she was a therapist, hopping from one small town to the next in western Pennsylvania, helping vets through a program that was barely hanging on because of the tight budget but had a heart of gold.
One day, she got a call about some guy named Grey Mercer from a person at the VA hospital in Pittsburgh. It sounded like the kind of deal that didn't come with all the details upfront. Usually, that meant the situation was complicated in a way that didn't fit into the neat little boxes that the system liked.
"Combat vet," the voice on the phone said, "probably dealing with PTSD, might have some issues with substances, staying with family in the boonies. No real home, no job, no insurance to speak of, just basic VA benefits."
Lila had heard this sort of story more times than she could count. Young folks who came back from the horrors of war only to find that the place they called home had moved on without them. Some managed to get their lives together with time and help. Others, not so much.
Finding Mara's farm was like trying to locate a needle in a haystack, even with GPS. Twice her car's navigation went haywire, and she had to stop at a gas station to ask for actual paper directions from a dude who looked at her like she'd lost her mind.
Finally, she pulled up to the house, and Mara popped out looking like she'd just been told Lila was there to sell encyclopedias or something.
"I'm Dr. Ortiz from the vet outreach deal," Lila called out, stepping out of the car. "Someone mentioned a Grey Mercer?"
Mara was quick to say, "I didn't call you."
"That's cool," Lila replied, playing it smooth. "Sometimes people who care about vets give us a heads-up. I'm here to offer help if he needs it."
Mara took a good look at Lila, probably checking out the cheap-but-tidy clothes and worn-out briefcase, trying to figure if she was legit. "He's not much for talking."
"That's normal."
"And he doesn't like new faces."
"Totally get it."
Mara sighed and said, "Alright, he's in the back room. If he says no, you gotta go."
The house was tiny and clean, filled with furniture that had more stories than a library. A cute kid played in the living room, building block towers and knocking 'em down like it was the most serious thing ever.
Grey's room was a sad sight—no windows, not even enough space to swing a cat. For someone with war on their mind, it had to feel like being stuck in a cell instead of a safe space.
Grey looked like he'd seen better days too, sitting on a mattress in clothes that hung off him like a scarecrow. His eyes were sharp, but they had that watchful look that said he didn't trust easy.
"I'm here to help you get back on your feet," Lila told him.
"I don't need a shrink," Grey said, getting straight to the point.
"Okay," Lila said, trying not to get into an argument about it. "What do you need?"
That threw him for a loop. "I need..." He had to think about it. "I need to not be a burden on Mara."
"What does that look like to you?"
"My own place, maybe a job. Something that isn't living in her basement."
Lila jotted that down. "How's the sleeping?"
"Fine," he said, obviously not telling the whole truth.
"Dreams?"
The question hit him hard, but he didn't want to talk about it. "Sometimes."
"And what about the daytime?"
"Just trying to stay out of everyone's hair."
The chat went on like that for a bit, Lila asking all sorts of things and Grey giving short answers. But Lila knew how to read people. She could see he was depressed, had some serious PTSD going on, and felt like he didn't belong anywhere. He was also smart, had a quick wit when he let it show.
Before she left, she gave him a book of poetry. "This is Mary Oliver," she said. "It's about nature and stuff. Sometimes it helps when you can't get outside."
Grey looked at it like it was a grenade. "I don't read much these days."
"No pressure. It's just there if you want it."
After Lila was gone, Mara found Grey looking at the book like it was a puzzle he hadn't solved. "She seems okay," she said.
"She wants to fix me."
"Is that a bad thing?"
Grey didn't say anything for a while. "Some things can't be fixed."
That night, Grey opened the book and read:
"Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"
The words stuck with him as he tried to get some shut-eye, swirling around with the tune that never really left his head.
Cr Cr Cr Autumn Grey, never thought you'd always come...