Navy Seal Security. Liz Johnson

      He clattered to a stop at the foot of the slanted ramp in front of a nondescript brick building, which looked just like every other in the medical complex. His gaze shifted from the steps at the front of the building to the too-short metal crutches digging into his sides.

      Stairs or the ramp?

      A low fire burned in his chest, and he squeezed his eyes closed against the flames that licked at his heart.

      For years he hadn’t cared. Either way was fine. Either got him where he needed to go.

      Now he cared.

      Now he didn’t have an option.

      He swung his left leg forward. The white brace succeeded in protecting his knee and also throwing him off-balance. Shoving one of his crutches out to the side, he caught himself just before his foot touched the ground.

      He’d already made that mistake once. There was a reason his doctor had told him to stay off it at all costs.

      It hurt. Like an inferno.

      Like he’d taken another piece of shrapnel along that roadside in Lybania.

      He opened his mouth, a pained groan on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back when the glass door at the top of the ramp flew open. A teenage girl bounced out, her strides so even he barely noticed that one of the knees below her shorts was wrapped in a black brace.

      She flipped her long blond hair over her shoulder and shot him a shy smile as she started down the ramp.

      He tried to return her gesture, but the IED that had stolen his ability to walk had also made it hard to find genuine happiness. He settled for a shallow dip of his chin and lumbered out of her way.

      When the girl was halfway to him, the office door swung open and a woman with orange hair popped out.

      “Juliana,” she said, before chasing the teen for five short steps.

      Juliana’s one-eighty was less graceful than her forward motion, requiring at least two extra steps and the aid of the handrail, but her knee remained stable.

      The wild-haired woman held out a bag, at which Juliana laughed, high and sweet. “Thanks, Tara.” Juliana slipped skinny arms through the straps, sliding a small backpack in place. “See you next week.” With that, she executed another awkward turn and ambled past him.

      Luke looked up at the woman still leaning against the handrail, her arms now folded over her neon-green scrubs.

      Was this Tara the Dr. Berg everyone said was so amazing? The physical therapist his senior chief on the teams, Matt, was convinced had gotten him back in fighting shape after his leg injury? But Matt’s injury hadn’t been a blown knee. He’d had a couple dozen stitches in his calf, a minor injury to his muscle.

      Luke, on the other hand, had shredded every major ligament in his knee.

      The doctor at Walter Reed Medical Center had offered him a medical discharge after that first scan. He’d told Luke there wasn’t much hope for a return to active duty. And every doctor thereafter had agreed.

      But Luke had promised Ashley Waterstone, the senior chief’s wife, that he’d schedule a consultation with Matt’s physical therapist.

      Squinting into the late-afternoon sun, he shuffled until he’d cut the distance between them in half. “I’m Luke Dunham.”

      The woman’s gaze slid over him like a sculptor searching for imperfections in her masterpiece.

      He’d been on the receiving end of that simultaneously curious and knowing stare before. And he’d enjoyed it for a few years. When he was younger. In his early days as a SEAL.

      Now it made his stomach churn and his skin feel clammy, even in the warm San Diego air. “I’m early. But I have an appointment with Dr. Berg.”

      “Of course you do, honey.” She gave a sharp nod and walked back to hold the front door open for him. Such a little gesture, but it still set his hands to itching. His dad had taught him that a man held the door open for a woman. Period.

      That he couldn’t even do it for himself set off that blazing ache in his chest again.

      “I’m Tara, Dr. Berg’s office manager.”

      Matt had promised that working with her would change his life.

      Maybe.

      But that would require a life. And he wasn’t sure he had much of one left.

      At least this was just a recon mission. He hadn’t committed to anything beyond talking with the good doctor...and picking up milk for his mom on the way home.

      Tara was still standing with the door wide-open, and Luke hadn’t moved an inch. She raised her eyebrows and nodded inside, silently asking what was taking him so long. Sucking in a fortifying breath, he pressed his palms against the rubber grips of his crutches and began a slow lumber up the incline. As he reached the open entrance, a blast of cold air greeted him.

      “Is it always a meat locker in here?”

      Tara shrugged one shoulder as she led the way across a mostly typical medical waiting room. Sturdy chairs lined three walls, except for three conspicuous holes that could only be there for those who brought their own seats. The usual industrial carpet had been swapped for hardwood, which was easier to maneuver on.

      He fell into one of the chairs and poked his tongue in his cheek as he took the clipboard that Tara held out to him.

      “Fill that out, and then someone will take you back to see Dr. Berg.”

      By this point, he could pretty much fill out a standard medical questionnaire with his eyes closed. It was all the same. Surgeries and allergies. Insurance and history.

      But there, at the very bottom of the page, was a single question he’d never been asked on any other form.

      How much do you want it?

      There was no box to check next to it. Not even a black line to write on. Just a clear call to hard work.

      Luke’s SEAL training instructors had asked him the same thing, and he’d showed them he wanted it more than anything else he’d ever dared to dream of.

      “Almost done?”

      He jumped at the feminine voice that didn’t belong to Tara. The woman standing at the wooden door that presumably led to the exercise and exam rooms offered neither a smile nor a frown. Her face was simply relaxed. One hand rested on her hip, and she cocked her head, sending her long black hair over one shoulder. The collar of her navy blue polo shirt stuck up below her left ear.

      At least she wasn’t wearing a white coat.

      Undoubtedly another of Dr. Berg’s assistants.

      He held out the completed form, and she took it, nodding down a short hallway. “We’ll go all the way down to the big room at the end.”

      As he moved in that direction, her steps eerily silent behind him, he fought the rush of uncertainty that washed across his shoulders. Another set of soundless footfalls had taken everything from him. His palm slipped against the grip, suddenly slick and clammy, and sweat broke out across his upper lip.

      This wasn’t the same.

      It wasn’t the same.

      How many times would he have to remind himself of that before he believed that he was home, that men didn’t walk around with bombs strapped to their chests and women didn’t push strollers of explosives down city streets?

      He paused just long enough to swipe his forearm across his mouth.

      “Do you wear out more easily than you used to?”

      “Not much.” That was a bit of a whopper, but he didn’t feel like explaining that his sudden sweats had less to do with muscle strain and nearly everything to do with a memory he couldn’t erase.

      The