Page 9 of Crossing the Line

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My head spun, and my stomach lurched as I felt my dinner starting to make its way up my throat. I didn’t want to push back basic training. I was ready to get into things. I’d been dreaming of this since the first time Dad put an Air Force sweatshirt on me when I was five. He’d gone to the Academy first, but I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to jump right in like his five brothers had.

I was nearsighted, so becoming a pilot wasn’t an option, but that didn’t matter. I’d always dreamed of being an Air Force Special Tactics pararescueman, which had been amplified when I lost my brother, Emmett.

It felt like a pin pierced my heart at the thought of Emmett. The anniversary of his death was coming up in a few months, and I’d been feeling that pinprick more and more.

“Does that sound good, Speedy?” my dad asked.

“Huh?” I asked through a fresh wave of pain.

Dr. Jackson smiled. Her brown skin was smooth, and her brown eyes had a golden hue to them. She pushed up her glasses and said, “I’ve got you an appointment on Monday with the hand therapist. She’s at the same physical therapy clinic your dad practices at.”

“Oh, right. So, can I go home now?”

“We’ll get the discharge papers started. Let’s make sure the pain is managed, first,” Dr. Jackson said.

All I wanted was the comfort of my own bed. I wanted to see Mom. And the twins. And Noah. Despite how loud my siblings got, I missed them. Their smiles might be the only thing that could lift my broken spirits right now.

Dr. Jackson handed my dad a piece of paper. “Here is a list of approved exercises for the time being.”

Dad gave the sheet to me. “Exercises?” I scoffed. “The only thing listed is walking! That’s it? That’s not going to help keep me in shape for basic training.”

“Grace,” my dad said in a stern voice.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I apologized to Dr. Jackson. “I know you’re just trying to help.”

An unruly lock of hair fell in front of my eyes. I flicked it away, and a jolt of pain streaked down my hand.

“Shit!” I’d used my injured hand.

“Grace!” Dad barked at me.

I hissed in a breath. “Sorry, sir. Forgot…” Pain pulsed through my hand like a jackhammer.

How the hell was I going to do anything with my dominant hand all busted up? Get dressed, brush my hair, get school work done? Would I have to type with one hand?

Double shit.

The image of Preach’s Jeep barreling toward me flashed through my mind. My left hand formed a tight ball. I wanted to punch that jerk right in the face.

Dr. Jackson nodded. “I understand this is a big blow, but we’re going to do everything in our power to get you better and off to basic training as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Thanks, Terry.” My dad stood and shook Dr. Jackson’s hand.

Tears burning, I looked at my dad. “I’m going to be okay, right?”

“Of course, Speedy.” The words should have reassured me, but the doubt I heard dripping off each one told me otherwise.

Dad slid his phone out of the clip on his belt and answered a call. “Yes, this is him.” He paused. “Okay. That sounds like a plan. Thank you.” He hung up and replaced his phone in its holder.

“Who was that?” I asked, sagging into my bed so the thin covers went up to my neck. It was freaking cold in this place.

“The towing company.”

My heart sank.

“The SUV is totaled.”


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