Her: I’m already hyperventilating just emailing with you. Actually having you here would make me pass out in fear. Aren’t there special things you can do from afar with spy cameras and listening devices? I watch a lot of movies on Netflix—those things definitely exist somewhere in either Hollywood or Washington DC.

I smile reluctantly. Her emails are funny enough to make me wonder what she’s like in person. It’s a damn shame that she’s got some asshole on her tail. Graham never did answer my question about what he is planning to do when I find the perp, but if some guy did that to my sisters, I’d find him and break his fingers.

Me: Think about it.

Her: Can I have a day or two to prepare?

Me: Absolutely. Text me if you need to. I’m more responsive to my texts than emails.

I send her my phone number. I’m a one-handed texter, but my typing isn’t much better. One of my employees has dyslexia and she prefers to send texts using emoji and pictures. I haven’t quite succumbed to that.

I work for a few more hours, tackling paperwork that I had been avoiding for the past couple of days. Both my phone and my inbox stay unnervingly quiet. The mini fridge behind me yields a day-old ham sandwich, which I wash down with two cans of Coke. Reviewing reports, calculating payroll, and reading résumés of potential new hires fall under things I don’t enjoy doing but can’t seem to delegate to others. Around midnight, I’m close to wrapping it up when the text message alert on my phone goes off. The phone number is unfamiliar to me, but the message reveals it’s Natalie. A tenseness in my gut I hadn’t realized was there eases.

Her: Oliver told me you were in the army. Can I ask an intrusive question?

Me: Sure.

I wonder if it’s about my prosthetics. Graham may not have paid attention to them, but he noticed the hand. It’s hard not to.

Her: Were you afraid? Ever?

Her question isn’t one that I expected, but maybe I should have. PTSD sufferers fear their response to current events and have anxiety over future ones. I suspect Natalie’s disorders aren’t much different. Fear is a big issue for her.

Me: Yes. Frequently.

Her: Thought army guys ate fear for breakfast. Also lunch, dinner, and for snacks in between.

Me: Nah. We ate shitty meals from a bag heated up by a chemical triggered by water. Snacks were candy. Fear lived with us.

Her: Shouldn’t you be sleeping? I thought you’d read this in the morning.

Me: I’m still working. Reports. Very boring.

Her: If I was alone in an office, I would be afraid. I’m afraid all of the time. During breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Also during snack.

Me: Fear is a healthy thing. When you stop being afraid, you aren’t as careful and alert.

Her: But at some point fear becomes the only thing. Then what?

I stare at the messages, wondering what I could say. I don’t want to feed her platitudes. When I was recovering from my injuries, I felt suffocated by the pain. It took me a while to come to the place where I am now. Five years ago, I wondered why the IED hadn’t just killed me instead of taking my hand and foot. Five years ago, I was a frickin’ mess. She’s not going to get judgment from me.

Me: Then you try to go to sleep and wake up to face the next day. And the next, until fear is the thing that keeps you sharp instead of the thing that makes you bleed.

Her: God. I like that. I like that a lot. I’m going to bed now to prepare for tomorrow.

Tomorrow will be a good day. I pause, my finger hovering over the screen. Text me when you wake up.

She sends me a thumbs-up and I leave the office with a smile on my face. The long day makes my stump throb inside its vacuum-sealed socket, and since no one is around, I let my left leg drag a little as I climb the stairs to the part of the townhouse that serves as my living quarters. But I avoid the elevator that I used frequently when I first moved in because pain, like fear, is something I’ve become accustomed to. It reminds me I’m alive and that’s a good thing.

Someday Natalie’s fear will be a good thing too.

In my bathroom, I pull down my jeans and push the button to release the pin holding the prosthetic in place. Once I tug off the limb, the instant relief is followed by a pins-and-needles sensation. I give the stump a good massage until all that remains is a low-grade ache. The arm comes off next and instantly I feel better. With my one hand balancing me against the wall, I hobble into the bathroom for a quick shower. After drying off and making my way to the bed, I drop my cell phone on the nightstand, face up. Just in case someone needs to text me in the middle of the night.

The number of people I’d stay awake for is small, but with wry amusement, I realize I’ve added Natalie to the list.

I wake up a few hours later, my body having long since rejected sleeping in. A quick glance at the phone tells me that no one else is awake, or at least not needing my attention. From the closet, I grab the blade for running, strap it on over the gel liner, and quickly dress. I don’t need the arm to run, and leave that off. It’s a lot more comfortable.

The one big benefit for an amputee with money is that I don’t have to rely on the government or insurance for my prosthetics. I get what I want and as many as I want. Whenever I visit another vet, I’m keenly aware of that particular privilege.

Ordinarily when I run, I like to zone out, but this morning I think of Natalie, stuck inside her apartment with all her great progress shot to shit. What kind of wart on humanity intentionally messes with a woman like that? Makes me want to punch something . . . hard.