Bones of the Lost

modern hospital stateside.
    “The difference is they see fewer gunshot wounds here than back home in Texas.”
    Jesus. Where did the woman find the energy for humor? If it was a joke.
    The Heathe N. Craig Joint Theater Hospital was located in a well-lit compound on the western edge of the base. The main structure was a squat, tan affair with a half dozen smokestacks pumping on the roof. An Afghan flag hung on a pole beside Old Glory. Both standards looked indifferent to their surroundings.
    The van pulled into a covered bay, followed closely by our Growler. Everyone got out. As the body bags were transferred to gurneys, I looked around.
    An enormous American flag covered the ceiling above our heads. Vertically stenciled letters spelled out WARRIOR’S WAY on a pillar. Signs with slashed red circles warned of weapons not permitted beyond the doors.
    The village overseers arrived in a second Growler. They alighted as the gurneys were rolled into the ER.
    The hospital’s interior was so cold I felt goose bumps pucker my flesh. The staff we passed watched with open curiosity, nurses and orderlies in fatigues or scrubs, doctors with surgical caps on their heads and masks half tied around their necks.
    Aqsaee and Rasekh were wheeled down a long tiled hallway to a cooler not that different from the one back home at the MCME. They would remain there awaiting my examination.
    I glanced at the village delegates, then turned to Welsted.
    “It would speed things up tomorrow if a series of X-rays was done on each individual tonight. I need to know what’s inside before I unwrap the shrouds.”
    “You could use some serious rack time.”
    “We all could,” I said.
    Welsted looked at me a very long moment. “If I’m present, do you trust a radiology tech to shoot your films?”
    It was what I would do at home.
    “Yes,” I said.
    Welsted crossed to the villagers, returned after a brief exchange.
    “They’re good with that. As long as we leave the bodies facing Mecca.”
    “I can stay,” I said.
    Welsted looked at her watch. “You call it a day.” To everyone. “That’s a wrap. We’ll reconvene here at oh-seven-hundred hours.”

    Back at my B-hut, I dumped my IBA, removed my outerwear, and peeled off my sock. My ankle was a tequila sunrise of mottled flesh and abraded skin.
    I knew I should ice down the injury. Hadn’t the time to worry about swelling. Telling myself it could have been a whole lot worse, I changed to jeans and a sweatshirt, tied my boot as tightly as I could bear, and headed out, hoping I wasn’t too late.
    At 2200 hours the base was as busy as during the day. The roads rumbled with Humvees, pickups, jeeps, and bikes. Pedestrians hurried to or from meals, USO centers, or showers. Radio towers and light stanchions flickered against the night sky.
    The air was cool, the wind fresh off the mountains. Insects swarmed the streetlamps overhead.
    Asking directions, I made my way to a two-story yellow structure with a banner saying LIGHTHOUSE above its front door. A few patrons lingered outside, cigarette tips glowing orange in the dark.
    “Mom! Mom, here!”
    I looked up.
    Katy was waving at me from the second-floor terrace.
    “Come on up!”
    Yes! Oh, yes!
    Ankle forgotten, I beelined through the door and up the stairs.
    The place was packed, only one free table. I was worming toward it when Katy swooped in, beaming, arms spread wide.
    As we hugged, I was astounded by my daughter’s strength. By the new hardness of her biceps.
    “Holy fuck, Mom. You really are here.”
    “I really am.”
    “I went by your B-hut, but you were out.”
    “Yeah,” was all I said.
    A Marine lance corporal approached the empty table behind us. A look from Katy and he reversed course. We both sat.
    “Something wrong with your foot?”
    “Pulled a muscle.”
    “Wuss.”
    “Right. I got your note. Did Scott Blanton contact you?”
    “Who?”
    “Never mind.”
    Katy had cut her hair very short. Not required, but my daughter has never been a fan of half measures.
    “I got your e-mails.”
    “And didn’t reply?”
    “Our unit’s been outside the berm. Just got back.”
    “Doing what?” Casual as hell.
    “Can’t say. You’re cool to that. Besides, we both know how you get.”
    “How I get?”
    Katy bugged her eyes, opened her mouth, and slapped her cheeks with her palms. “Crazoid!”
    “I do not get crazoid.”
    “Fine. But you worry too much.”
    “Or you don’t worry enough.” The fatigue. The