“On it, boss.”

I leave Zachs to his work, silently berating myself for not asking more questions instead of flirting with her. This is why you don’t get involved with clients. But backing away now isn’t going to happen. I spent the night hard thinking of her in the ratty clothes she described with all that smooth golden skin underneath. I can tell she wasn’t ready, not ready to open the door and not ready to have dirty sex with me over the phone. But I am. Fuck, I am.

I can’t stop thinking about her. I’ve never talked to anyone on the phone so long. Not my mother, not my sisters, not Laura Severson, the girl I dated for four years before I signed up to join the army. We’d made it two years into my deployment before I broke it off. The man she thought she’d fallen in love with didn’t exist anymore. I’d changed from a snot-nosed kid with an Ivy League degree to someone who felt more comfortable sleeping in a ditch than at home in his parents’ multimillion-dollar townhouse.

We’d done those things I’d told Natalie about—the Skype sex, the phone sex. It’d been good. Shit, after days and nights of seeing nothing but the grimy faces of my fellow soldiers and acres of dust, any slight reveal of a boob or ass would’ve gotten me hard back then. She only had to smile or toss her $600 salon-colored, wheat-blonde hair over her shoulder to get me ready. Until it didn’t work anymore. Until I began to dread those phone calls, those Skype sessions, the visits with her back home.

She’d wonder aloud when I was getting out, suggesting various investment firms that would love to have me.

We’d have sex on those visits and I’d wonder how soon I could leave. And the answer was not soon enough. She felt like she couldn’t break up with a patriot, so I did it for her. I was the asshole who left her and she could move on without guilt. I was glad to hear she had gotten married.

At the bottom of the stairs, Victoria greets me. “Jake, do you have a minute?”

I open my mouth to say yes, and then I recall Ian’s warning from last night. The tentative smile on her face signals that business is probably not what she intends to talk to me about. Suddenly I remember I have an appointment.

“Not right now. Just leave me a message.” Victoria has dyslexia and her hastily scribbled notes are a conglomeration of letters and little pictures that only Ian understands. Her partner writes the reports and Victoria leaves me voice messages. In my office, I grab my jacket, phone, and keys.

“It will only take a minute,” she says.

A highly uncomfortable minute, I think.

“Sorry, leave a message.” I brush by her, but she’s dogged and follows me out to the car.

“You can’t escape me this easily. I work with you. I know where you live.” She points upstairs.

“But I have a car so I can escape.”

“You’re going to have a bitch of a time parking.”

“Maybe so.” I move her to the side and unlock the black four-door Audi A8 that she eyes with undisguised interest. Ian had been teaching her how to drive and she’s developed a new interest in cars—a good replacement after she’d traded her cycling shoes in for a private investigator’s license.

I didn’t lie to Victoria, though, because I did have an appointment to see Dr. Crist. It occurred to me after the game that he might have some insight on Natalie. I worry that her doctor is doing her more harm than good. There are good therapists and then there are assholes. I served with assholes and I served with good people. No organization or group of people is devoid of the dreck of humanity, the ones who like to kill for shits and giggles or the ones who are so irresponsible, they’ll shoot themselves in the face by accident. Problem is that sometimes you have difficulty discerning who’s the good guy and who’s the fuckstick.

The tree-lined street where Isaiah’s office is located is already full of cars. Victoria was right. I probably should’ve taken a cab or a car service, but I prefer to drive. I don’t like to be dependent on anyone for anything, including my own transportation. I maneuver the car into a parking spot two blocks away, but halfway to Isaiah’s office, my leg begins to ache—part of the drawback of getting up early and staying out late with a prosthesis.

I climb the steps of the brownstone and press the buzzer, announcing myself.

His secretary releases the lock. Sylvia has been with Isaiah for as long as I’ve known him, and she never looks like she’s aged a day.

“Dr. Crist is running late. May I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you, ma’am,” I answer. I take a seat to stretch out my leg and give my thigh and knee a quick rubdown. I’m still squeezing it when Dr. Crist comes out.

“Looks like you’re not taking care of yourself,” he says in his deep baritone. Crist is slightly under six feet, but his wide shoulders create an imposing presence.

I rise and give my leg a little shake. “Just spending a little too much time on my leg. Thanks for throwing me under the bus the other night.”

He grins. “I thought you’d enjoy that. Come on in. How’s business?”

“Good. I’ve got more clients than I have employees.” I decide against sitting. Sometimes the burning or ache goes away if I walk it off, other times I just have to live with it. It’s the price an amputee pays for being mobile. I don’t know of one person who is pain-free with their prosthetic. At some point during the day, it starts to ache, but if you embrace the pain, it can be a sweet reminder of what you survived. “I’m guessing it’s the same for you. Sylvia sighed a lot before she told me I could see you at ten.”

“Unfortunately,” he admits, “there is no end of customers. The demand for your type of services may always be high.”

Isaiah’s office takes up almost half of the floor, and one side is lined with books. There are fiction, nonfiction, academic texts, and popular self-help books that rest side by side on the shelves. Toward the end, by the French doors leading to a garden terrace where Isaiah sometimes holds his sessions, I even find a set of Natalie’s books. I pull the first one out. Don’t Sleep by M. Kannan.

I’d have to ask her some time how she came up with her pseudonym. I hold out the book. “You plan to see the movie?”

Isaiah settles behind his desk and puts his feet up as I wander. “Opening night with my wife, I hope. You?”

“Yeah. Opening night,” I echo.

I wonder if Natalie would go or if that was one more thing that she would miss due to her illness. On the other side of the room are pictures. Some are of Isaiah when he was in the army, some when he was in college, but many are pictures of his family—old, deceased, and new. Isaiah lives the life dreamed by every soldier. His wife is literally a supermodel. She doesn’t model anymore but hosts her own reality-TV show. They have three beautiful children. In their wedding picture, the one that he has chosen to showcase in the middle of the wall, his tux pants are rolled up and you can see the titanium leg and blade that served as his foot that day. His wife is holding his hand tightly, her dress pulled up to reveal her perfect ankles and toned calves.

Isaiah is the perfect doctor to talk to if you’re a soldier who thinks his life is over. He will tell you it has just begun.

“I have a friend.” I put the book back in its place and turn around to lean against the shelves. “She suffers from severe anxiety. To the extent that she is housebound. She has difficulty even opening her door at times for fear of what unknown may be on the other side.”

“Anxiety disorders can be seriously debilitating, as you already know.”

I nod slowly, trying to explain the situation as best I can without breaking a confidence. “It’s been going on for at least three years. Recently she had gotten the courage to leave her apartment and go to places close by. A couple weeks ago she was able to make it to the subway entrance but not down in the tunnel. A subway attack was the trigger to her current situation.”