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I thought about my answer for a moment and decided to give her the truth. "He's angry right now. He went through a lot and he's in pain all the time. That will make
anyone
angry. There are moments, though, where I see the old Merrick. The one everyone adored. He can be really funny, but most of the time he's just intense. He's a good man, though. He sacrificed for his country, for
us
. That alone makes him amazing."

My cheeks flushed and my stomach fluttered as I talked about Merrick. I busied myself with stuffing more sushi in my mouth so I wouldn't have to see Keara and Mom's reaction.

"What are his injuries?" Keara asked a moment later.

I sighed and took another sip of wine, glancing at my mom who looked just as curious as Keara. I hadn't really spoken with her about his injuries since it wasn't really my place to share that information because I was his nurse.

"He was burned. Broke his leg in a few places. His left hand was pretty messed up, I'm guessing since he had several surgeries on it. Without telling too much, I think the left side of his body was closest to whatever explosion went off that day."

Keara seemed to sense that I couldn't say much more about Merrick without violating his privacy. What I had said were things the whole town already heard about him. Without seeing him, one wouldn't really know about the rest.

"Can they fix his eyes?"

I shook my head. "Not that I know of, but he isn't very compliant right now as far as doctor visits go. I think the only reason he went to his last appointment so easily was because he wanted that cast off."

"I can imagine," Keara said around a sip of wine. "Those things are the worst."

"Your father said that he was looking into his condition," Mom chimed in, surprising me once more. "He talked to Merrick shortly after he returned home, and although Merrick didn't think it would go anywhere, your dad is still making as many phone calls as he can."

"I had no idea," I breathed.

Mom nodded, "Our families were neighbors for years, Grace. Emma and I became good friends. Jeff and Nathan did as well. Merrick was always a nice boy and had so much going for him. Still does. His time in the military only added to it."

I ruminated on that information for the rest of dinner while we chatted back and forth about weddings and engagement rings and the story about how Dad asked Mom to marry him. I hadn't laughed so much in my life and it felt good to finally feel like I could look up. I had a piece of my old life back, but it was better than the old. It was now and it was needed.

I only hoped that Merrick could one day find that kind of peace. Even if it meant starting a whole new life.

"So, what are you doing for the Fourth of July?" Keara asked as I walked her out to her car a couple hours later.

"I'm not sure. It's this coming Friday, right?"

"Uh huh. Josh is on call, so we can't really plan much, but we were thinking about going to the high school to watch the fireworks. I know you and your parents usually watch them from here, since you're so close, but if you want to come with us ..."

"Maybe," I said with a shrug. "I don't know if I'm quite ready to mingle with so many people. Too many questions."

"I get it. I do. But don't lock yourself up too tightly. It only makes things worse."

I nodded, knowing she was right. It was just easier said than done.

After a brief hug, Keara climbed into her car and poked her head out the window, sending a playful smile my way. "Or maybe you'll be too busy with Merrick."

I rolled my eyes and waved goodbye as she pulled out of the driveway. When I turned to walk back to the front porch, my eyes wandered over to the house next door.

The Fourth of July hadn't even crossed my mind in the past couple weeks since I'd been working with Merrick. I couldn't imagine he would be up for the celebration since he barely left the house. It was another item to add to my list of things to ask Emma.

He may not want to celebrate, but I would make sure he wasn't alone.

Merrick

I used to love Independence Day.

The parades, the food, the softball games. Even the people.

It was a celebration for the sole purpose of just being free. An honoring of the sacrifices made for that freedom.

Now, it just felt like another day in Hell.

Just the thought of being around so many people made my skin crawl. The smells, the sounds ... it was all too much for me. I could feel everything through my bedroom window. The taste and smell of smoke rising from grills in every backyard, laughter and delight in every voice. It was sensory overload for a man that couldn't see what was happening.

Mom spent the entire week begging me to at least consider joining them at the fairgrounds once the parade was over. I begged her to just leave me alone. Spent the whole week trying to prove that I was just fine. That nothing was wrong.

"Just this year, Mom. Just give me this year. I can't do it yet."

She was reluctant, but who was going to deny a blind man this one request. "Okay, son. We'll be around for the fireworks."

"Don't bother. I'll be fine. You can check on me throughout the day, but all I'm going to do is get some rest."

This, of course, led to several questions about why I wasn't sleeping and why I was so stubborn. Mitch and Micah didn't let it go until Dad finally put his foot down and told everyone to stop treating me like a child.

I wanted to hug him and fall at his feet for the gesture. I just wanted to sleep through all of it.

Grace tended to agree with my mother that I shouldn't be alone on such an important holiday. She didn't give me crap for it, though, and she had all week to do it. I think she understood, in some ways.

The day passed without incident. Mom checked on me every hour by phone and stopped by the house every
other
hour to make sure I was still alive and kicking.

I kept telling her not to worry. I'd be fine.

That's before I remembered that in Morgan, the fireworks could be heard everywhere.

I'm not talking about the small ones everyone and their mother lights on the streets. Those made my muscles tense, but I could handle them. I'm talking about the ones that make those puny ones look like glitter bombs.

I was sitting by my bedroom window, like I always did, waiting for sleep to take me since Mom had shoved a couple pills down my throat again. It was the very first loud
boom
that made everything inside of me try to claw its way out.

I wasn't okay.

BOOM! POP! BOOM BOOM! POP!

It all happened so fast. Instinct kicked in, along with a massive dose of adrenaline. I was on the ground before the next one went off. The pain in my leg and hand was intense, but nothing compared to the pain of what I knew was coming.

Voices and shouts mixed in with the explosions. Shouts I couldn't understand. And suddenly, I was back on that fucking truck, hoping to God that tonight wasn't the night we all gruesomely died.

The crackle of flames and the whiz of bullets, filled my ears. I covered my head, riding out three more
booms
before my body went on autopilot.

Cover. Find cover.

I didn't know where to go, where I even was. I just needed to find cover.

I pulled myself along the wall, crawling over my fallen wheelchair, searching for anything to give me safety to ride it out. Instead of the cold metal of the chair, I felt the sand between my fingers. Instead of the warm breeze of a summer night, I felt the blood running down into my eyes.

I couldn't see anything in front of me as I reached over for a gun that wasn't there.

Images flashed in my mind, and every
boom
sent my heart racing. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the impact.

It was coming. It always came.

A muffled voice reached my ears. Then I was surrounded by something warm and soft. Something that didn't smell like the sand and blood I knew, without a doubt, was covering my skin. It held me tight. Covering my head and protecting my body from the imminent impact of whatever was being fired at us.

A humming sound filled the silence between each
boom
and
pop
. They kept going, but the melody slowly began drowning out the crackling in my ears. I opened my eyes, but saw nothing.

I was either dying or dreaming. Either way, I was no longer in reality.

"You're here, Merrick. With me. Nowhere else but here. It's the fireworks. Nothing else," the voice said, trembling like my body trembled. "You're here and you're safe. I'll keep you safe."

An angel then. It had to be.

I wrapped my arms around her, sensing the need to protect her from whatever was coming, but I was too far gone. I couldn't protect anyone if I couldn't see. I dropped my head to her chest and squeezed my eyes shut again, riding it out in a cold sweat. All the while, she hung onto me, humming her song through every explosion.

When it was finally silent, all my working senses seemed to give up on the memories. I couldn't smell any fire or burning flesh, just a sweet, familiar scent. I couldn't feel the sand and blood, just a softness against my cheek. I couldn't hear anything but that sweet voice I knew, only too well.

Grace.

Breathing came easier, but the aches in my body only intensified with each inhale.

"You back?" Grace whispered.

For the first time in a long time, I actually wanted to be. I wanted to be home instead of paying my penance out there. I wanted it to be over instead of re-living every moment.

"I'm back," I rasped.

But for how long?

***

Three weeks later and I still hadn't thanked Grace for what she did that night.

How does one thank a person for metaphorically saving one's life? They can't.

Well,
I
can't.

We tiptoed around each other those next few weeks. Conversation was stilted, but there. Nothing personal or enlightening. Grace never said a word about what happened and I couldn't bring it up without feeling weak. On the outside, as far as we were both concerned, it never happened.

She didn't tell Mom. I was sure about
that
at least. Otherwise, my mother would have been a blubbering mess of guilt for not being there for me herself. Another thing I needed to thank Grace for.

It was when I opened my mouth for the hundredth time, trying to say something –
anything
– that she finally took pity on me.

"Let it go, Merrick," she'd stated.

The memory of her arms around me, keeping me safe when she didn't need to, made me ask, "Why?"

She never answered, but then, she didn't really need to.

I was saved by Grace once more.

It was getting more and more difficult to keep my mind off of her. She was so soft and warm and smelled so fucking good. I wanted to reach out and touch her when I knew she was close by, but I never did. Her clinical touch would have to be enough, for now.

I was getting better with transitioning in and out of my chair. Grace helped me find a more comfortable way that put less stress on my legs and used more of my upper body strength. With my left hand free of a cast, it still wasn't easy, but it was a little more convenient to have another limb, even if it was still weak. The removable arm brace that Dr. Hopkins ordered me to wear was a pain in the ass, but at least I could take it off and scratch the tender skin underneath.

Feeling the scars crawling over the skin of my arm and hand was a constant reminder of the pain I had endured while dragging Ryan away from that burning truck. I'd felt the pain, but it didn't matter at the time. All that mattered was getting my friend away from danger.

Ryan was alive and holding his baby girl now because of this hand. I was proud of myself, but it still hurt. I lost too many that day, and even though Ryan was important to me, the rest of them had families and children, too.

Just another painful reminder that I should have been taken that day. Not them.

Don't underestimate yourself.

Grace's words, undeniably, had an effect on me. Everyone told me to stop
hating
myself. The thing was, hating myself came too effortlessly. It was simpler to believe I was inadequate, but she was right. I was underestimating myself from the very beginning, and although I still wanted the easy way, I was starting to think that hating myself
was
the weakest part of me. Not my damaged body.

Grace constantly spoke about her friend, Keara, and the soon-to-be fiancé, Josh Colson. I knew Josh back in the day, but we were never friends. I couldn't really remember Keara that well.

This was no surprise to Grace. "We both kept our heads down and neither one of us ever got invited to the crazy parties you went to."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. We never fit in with those kids, so we stuck together. I don't feel like we really missed out, though."

"You didn't," I informed her. "Those parties were nothing but kids trying to find a way to get drunk. That gets old after a while."

"Then why did you go to them?"

"Because my friends went. Because I was expected to go. They were fun most of the time, but not worth the hassle afterwards."

She stayed silent for a moment before she asked, "Did you know you were going to join the military all along?"

I wasn't prepared for that question, and I was even less prepared for the answer. My decision to join wasn't really a mystery to me. From the very beginning, I knew I didn't need the money for school and I'd never been interested in the extreme training we all went through. It was just something inside of me that needed to be a part of something important. A part of something incredible. A part of me also wanted the discipline and the responsibility. Life was always so easy for a kid with a straight path carved out in front of him. Friends and girls that wanted him. I wanted something unpredictable, something difficult.

I was always proud to serve my country. The first day I arrived at basic was like coming home. I belonged there and knew I could make a difference.

Those reasons changed quickly. It was no longer about the challenge or the purpose, it was about the man next to me and the one next to him. It was about my brothers in arms. It was about protecting them and fighting for them, because they were fighting for
me
.

Grace didn't hear any of those reasons, because I didn't tell her. I couldn't find the words to explain it to her, and even if I did, she wouldn't understand. So, like the inconsiderate jerk everyone thought I was, I just shrugged and rolled back to my room. The sanctuary that was no longer a sanctuary.

She didn't ask again and ended up staying away from the topic altogether.

I wasn't ashamed or scared to talk about it. It's just hard to describe something like that. It's hard to explain to someone that, out there, you've already accepted your death. That it's not about
you
anymore.

Maybe one day I would tell her. Maybe one day she would just know, because she knew
me
. Or maybe one day, the reasons would change and I wouldn't feel so much regret.

The days passed in a blur. Pretty soon, July was gone and the heat of August kept me inside. Not that I wanted to be out there anyway. There were days that Grace sat on the back porch, 'soaking in the sunlight'.

"You'd feel better if you felt some sun on your face. It's refreshing," she said.

I was tempted, but knowing I would still be in the dark while my face felt the warmth of the sun ... it was like falling into a nightmare all over again. I couldn't risk it. Not if I wanted everyone to leave me alone.

Grace kept the windows opened and I didn't argue. She wanted light, she'd have it. Enough for the both of us.

I started a more intense level of therapy for my hand. It was as much of a pain in the ass as I expected. The stiffness in my fingers didn't let me do
anything
without pain, and every time I tried to grip something, it was like starting from scratch. I could barely lift a fork to my mouth without trembling.

I was sick of the limitations I still had and I hated not being able to use my body. After all the work I had done to take care of it, to hone it into a weapon to be used at will, it was hard for me to accept that it would never be the same.

Still, I kept trying. I'd already established that I was an asshole so why not add stubborn to the mix?

Grace helped with the therapy and with basic things that were still too difficult to try without hurting myself. She also kept trying to feed me the pain medication that no longer numbed the pain. I fought her every step of the way and she dealt with my continued stubbornness, but she did it sweetly. Anyone else would have smacked me in the face by now, but not Grace. Her patience was almost Godly.

The hardest part was adjusting to the blindness. Grace had done my mother's bidding and found me a better way to learn Braille. It was difficult and frustrating. My thick fingers made it hard to focus on one line at a time, but I was making progress even if it was only a tiny bit. I had Grace to thank for that, but she insisted I thank my mother.

Which I did.

I didn't earn any son-of-the-year awards lately, and Mom didn't deserve the treatment she had gotten from me over the last few months. Dad ripped me a new one more times than I could count, but Mom always stayed calm.

I didn't deserve her.

I told her this, which resulted in her ripping me a new one on her own. Guess she gets pretty pissed when her kids don't understand how much she loves them.

Grace also organized my closet. Thick plastic hangers for sweaters and jackets, smaller hangers for T-shirts. She used the same techniques she had used in the shower, patiently guiding me through the process of finding my own clothing.

"Touch is your friend, Merrick," she said while she clutched my immense hand in her tiny one. Her skin was so soft, I could scarcely restrain myself from running my thumb over the back of her hand just to feel more.

Touch
was
my friend, but touching Grace would be the death of me. I barely processed what she was telling me in my attempt to shut down any sexual thoughts about her. I wouldn't say they came out of nowhere, but they were certainly unexpected.