“It’s time to go out now, Sebastian,” she said softly, staring into my eyes.

A pulse of fear made me shudder, and I closed my eyes and swallowed.

“I don’t know if I can do that, Caro.”

“You don’t have to do this by yourself, Sebastian,” she said, stroking my arms gently. “We go together. Come on, tesoro. Together.”

I was so fucking terrified by the thought of going outside. Logically, I knew that there were no IEDs in Long Beach, no snipers waiting on roofs to finish the job. I knew that. My brain knew that, but my fucking body kept sending signals like I was going out on an op, with no body armor and no weapon. So yeah, I was shit scared.

Caro gave me a Yankees baseball cap to wear. I didn’t care which fucking team it was from, and I pulled it down over my eyes, trying to hide. Silently, she passed me my old biker jacket which had arrived in a trunk three weeks ago. I didn’t even know she’d unpacked it. When I tried it on, it hung loosely from my shoulders, reminding me that I was a scrawny fucker these days.

Then we were outside. I flinched as Caro shut the door behind me, and took several deep breaths, trying to force some calm into my body.

As I squinted into the sunshine, Caro took my hand, and I swear my heart instantly slowed to a more normal rhythm.

We walked along haltingly, not just because I couldn’t move fast, but because I couldn’t help myself checking the roof tops for rifle barrels sticking out, for suspicious faces in the crowds that ebbed and flowed around us.

I tried to reboot my brain. I tried so fucking hard.

And then…

I let myself enjoy the fresh air. I let myself breathe.

Caro didn’t let go my hand the whole time.

“There’s a café over there, Sebastian,” she said softly. “Why don’t we go have a coffee?”

My heart rate immediately shot up.

“I don’t know, Caro … sitting outside? I wouldn’t feel … safe.”

She squeezed my hand more tightly.

“Sebastian, you know rationally that there’s nothing to worry about. Let’s just try it for a couple of minutes: if you really can’t handle it, we’ll leave.”

My body jerked and hummed with adrenalin, but I didn’t argue. My eyes were darting everywhere as I sat cautiously in the plastic seat, my back to the wall.

The waiter came toward us and I flinched away from him, but Caro rested her hand on my knee, calming me.

“I’ll have an espresso. Sebastian?”

I was only barely aware that she’d spoken, so she answered for me.

“And a Bud Light,” she said.

The waiter walked away shaking his head; he was used to a bit of crazy among his customers.

I sipped my beer, forcing myself to relax. I’m not sure I ever did, but it wasn’t as scary as it would have been without Caro.

I won’t lie, I felt happier once we were moving again. I was shocked by how exhausted I was after such a short walk—a guy who used to march for 30 hours with a ninety pound pack on his back. Fucking pathetic.

Caro took me along the Boardwalk. I hadn’t been there before. Despite the large numbers, I wasn’t freaking out too badly. People were laidback, strolling in the sunshine.

But then a roaring sound scared the crap out of me and I nearly hit the deck. I was shaking so badly. Jesus H Christ—it was just a kid on a skateboard. I was seconds from having a full-on panic attack.

“It’s okay, tesoro,” Caro said, holding my hand firmly as I panted and wheezed. “You’ll be okay.”

“Fuck, Caro,” I gasped.

By the time we reached the end of the Boardwalk, I began to relax a little more. Caro found an empty bench and we sat gazing at the ocean. I breathed in deeply, feeling calmed by the rhythmical motion of the waves. The ocean had always been my safe place when I was a kid—a place to get away from my parents. Seemed like it was still my safe place.

A couple of kids were playing on bodyboards, catching a few rides, shouting and laughing. That was something I knew. Something I understood. I leaned forward to watch them and I felt Caro relax against me.

For the first time in months, I put my good arm around her, feeling the soft warmth of her body as she snuggled against me.

“The ocean always reminds me of you, tesoro. It’s the same color as your eyes today.”

There was so much love in her voice that I was speechless. I didn’t know why; I didn’t understand it at all. But I didn’t have to. All I could do was lift her hand to my lips and kiss it gently, reverently.

“Caro.”

I breathed her name softly, like a prayer, because this woman had brought me back from hell.

A light breeze ruffled my hair and I could feel the sun on my face as we sat by the ocean. I felt I could breathe again. Live again.

“Thank you for this, Caro,” I whispered.

She smiled up at me.

“Ready to go home, tesoro?”

I nodded, and we stood up to walk home. Our home.

We went back a different, slightly less crowded route. I was still scanning the roofline and checking everywhere for unfriendlies—that wasn’t something I’d be able to turn off easily. But maybe I could stop feeling like I wanted hit the deck all of the time; you know, just control it a little more. I tried to keep my breathing slow, and I held onto Caro’s hand like she was the last life raft in an ocean of sharks. That’s how it was for me.

But then I felt her freeze, her fingers digging into my arm, and I immediately saw why. Three men with black hair, olive skin and dark eyes were arguing loudly outside a café. My brain immediately started working through threat triage—a mental checklist: weapons, nope; concealed weapons or bombs, nope; aggressive body language, nope—all in less than a second. Threat level low … and then I realized they were talking in Pashto.

Confused, I paused while my brain whirred and coughed. Had I really heard that? Pashto?

I listened more closely. Yep, definitely Pashto, definitely Afghans. And they were talking about … baseball. I did a double-take. Really? Baseball?

They were arguing about who was better: the Mets or the Yankees. I felt the unfamiliar sensation of a smile pulling at my lips.

I couldn’t help the question that tumbled out of me.

“You think the Yankees will clinch the season, or can Boston take them?”

In Pashto.

They stared at me, then came rushing forwards, asking me how I was speaking their language, who was I, where was I from? I felt Caro tense up as they surrounded me, but I squeezed her hand and spent a few minutes talking; just talking, like a normal human being.

A part of me felt like maybe I should hate them because their countrymen had killed my friends, but I just couldn’t. They were here, in Long Beach, as far away from the war as I was. And so we talked. They invited me to have tea with them. I said maybe I would another time.

They told me I had a beautiful wife. I didn’t correct them.

As I walked away, Caro tugged on my arm.

“What on earth were you talking about for so long?”

“Baseball,” I replied with a smile.

She stared at me doubtfully.

“You’re kidding me?”

I winked at her.

“Universal language, Caro.”

And somehow, for the dumbest of reasons, the world began to turn again.

I knew I had to get my ass into gear and make some changes—for myself as well as for Caro. I started by doing the exercises that the therapist had given me: some were to help build up dexterity in the fingers of my left hand, plus leg stretches to help the damaged muscles of my right thigh. I even started to use the exercise bike that Caro had ordered for me—although I hated the fact that it was static and I didn’t go anywhere, just peddling meaninglessly. That could have described my fucking life. But I’d try. For Caro, I’d try.

But I missed being able to go for a run—I guess those days were over. I did crunches, push-ups, and pull-ups hanging from the doorframe. I pushed myself harder each time.