Just Remember to Breathe (Thompson Sisters)

chance. Why did it kill him and leave me alive? I don’t know.
    The flip side of being a lucky guy is, sometimes I’m not the same guy I was. I want to draw a picture in your mind. Just imagine a brain… a big gray blob, connected to your body through the brain stem and spinal cord, floating and cushioned by fluid and protected by my big thick skull. Now take a sledgehammer and hit it, hard.
    That’s pretty much what happened. It’s been tough to accept, to be honest with you. I may not have been the best student in the world, but I was pretty damned smart. Used to be, anyway. Now… I have some problems. Can’t remember things sometimes. Like where I’m supposed to be, or what day it is, or how to add and subtract. It’s much worse when I’m tired, but you can see evidence pretty frequently, when I forget words. I’ll just be talking up a storm, then all of the sudden I’ll forget simple words—like blue, or sky, or my own name. It’ll be right there on the tip of my tongue, but I just can’t get it out.
    In any event, when I got accepted to Columbia, the Atlanta VA made arrangements for me to continue my physical therapy here in New York. Three times a week I’m down at the VA on East 23 rd to get poked and prodded, stretched and pulled.
    “Morning,” I said when I was called and walked slowly, without the cane, to Jerry Weinstein’s office.
    Jerry’s a big guy. A monster. A fortyish Marine who lost a leg in Iraq back in 2004, he’s got zero sympathy for any bullshit from me. Strangely, I like him. But God if he doesn’t love to cause me pain.
    “What’s up, Paris? Why are you so cheerful? It’s Monday morning.”
    I looked at him, tried to keep a straight face, and said, “I can’t think of any place I’d rather spend my Monday mornings than with a washed up Marine with a cruelty fetish.”
    He guffawed. “You’re gonna get extra work for that, dogface.”
    “Bring it, jarhead.”
    He stood with a grin, asked, “All right, how’s the leg?”
    “Better. I’ve been off the cane for a few days. I carry it around just in case. Still moving slow as hell, though.”
    “What about the noggin?” he asked, tapping the side of his head.
    I shrugged. “Struggling some, especially with math. I used to be really good at math.”
    “Hmm,” he said, nodding. “Any light sensitivity?”
    I tapped my sunglasses. “Yeah, always.”
    “Headaches?”
    “Might be better, I’m not sure.”
    “All right. When was your last CAT scan?”
    I thought about it. Then shook my head. “I don’t know. It was in Atlanta… three weeks ago? A month ago?”
    He nodded, slowly, then said, “All right, time to get another. I’m going to set you up for an appointment with the brain docs for next week. Let’s see that leg.”
    He did an examination of my right leg. It hurt. The muscles in my thigh and calf were still extremely weak: you could visibly see that my right leg was way smaller than the left.
    “Coming along,” he said. “I think it’s time you got back to running.”
    “ Running? I can barely walk!”
    “Yeah. Time to quit stalling, Paris. Just make sure you have a friend with you, in case you fall over and can’t get up.” He flashed a grin at me. “But I want you up and running, Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. Start out short distance, but get out there and do it. You hear me?”
    I nodded grimly, then said, “I don’t have any friends.”
    “Yeah, well, hire someone, then. But get out there and do it.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “You only say that because you love me.”
    “Sure, Jerry.”
    “All right, asshole. Time for your workout.”
    Grimly, I nodded and stood. I kept thinking. Who could I ask to spot me when I was running? There was no one. Or, there was one person, but… could I ask her? Was it crazy to even think so? I didn’t want her taking pity on me. I didn’t want her doing it because she knew I was friendless and alone. I didn’t want her doing it because of our past, which was against the rules to talk about anyway. And the hell of it was, no matter what I did, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I couldn’t stop imagining her scent, I couldn’t stop thinking of how wonderful it once felt to hold her in my arms.

    A little hair of the dog (Alex)

    Dylan and I had settled into a bit of a routine. We were both on the same schedule, work-study with Doctor Forrester on Monday, Wednesday, Friday from 3 p.m. until 6. We were making a lot of progress, and had