I had been there before, as a patient, after my injury.

That time, each step had required a kind of concentration that left me exhausted by lunch.

Now I was visiting a former Navy corpsman named Lena Ortiz.

Lena had been on the transport with me when the explosive device detonated.

She’d been twenty-seven, stubborn, and unusually gifted at calming frightened people.

After we came home, she rebuilt her career helping wounded service members navigate rehabilitation.

She opened her office door and hugged me carefully, avoiding my bad knee out of habit.