Chapter 2 - The Crash at the Curb
The rideshare pickup lane outside Wichita Eisenhower Airport was a chaotic canyon of idling diesel engines, flashing hazard lights, and freezing travelers stamping their feet against the pavement. The wind whistled through the concrete parking structure, carrying the sharp scent of exhaust fumes and wet asphalt.
I dragged my heavy duffel bag behind me, my boots dragging slightly. My knees felt hollow, like dry reeds ready to snap under the slightest pressure.
Every breath felt shallow, catching high in my chest. The minor redness on my residual limb—the small friction sore I had intentionally hidden from my case manager at Walter Reed three days ago out of sheer terror that they would delay my travel orders—had expanded. It was no longer a localized irritation. The heat from the infection was radiating upward, sending fiery spikes of pain into my shoulder joint.
I had taken two extra-strength acetaminophen tablets before leaving the airport terminal, but they were doing nothing against the rising tide of systemic shock.
My vision blurred at the edges, the bright yellow and red tail lights of passing sedans smearing into long, bleeding streaks of light.
Just get to the car, I told myself, repeating the mental mantra that had carried me through two combat tours and months of grueling physical therapy. One foot in front of the other. You don't need anyone. You're a Staff Sergeant. You survived the Arghandab.
My foot caught on an uneven lip of concrete near the crosswalk.
There was no arm to throw out for balance, no left hand to catch my fall. My torso twisted violently, and I hit the ground hard, my right shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. The heavy canvas duffel tipped over, slamming into the curb with a muffled thud.
For a second, the world went completely silent. The roar of airport traffic faded into a dull, distant hum, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in my ears.
“Ma’am? Hey, miss, are you alright?”
A pair of heavy work boots appeared in my field of vision. A man in a high-visibility airport security vest crouched down beside me, his breath pluming in the freezing air.
I tried to push myself up using my right arm, but my muscles refused to engage. My limbs felt heavy, filled with lead.
“I’m fine,” I whispered, the lie tasting like copper and ash on my tongue. “Just tripped over my bag.”
“You’re burning up,” the security guard said, his voice laced with sudden alarm as he reached out to touch my forehead. He pulled his hand back instantly. “Jesus, lady, you’re scorching. Where are you hurt? Did you fall on your arm?”
“No,” I gasped, shivering so hard my teeth clicked together. “I need... I need my phone.”
I reached into my coat pocket with my remaining hand, but my fingers were clumsy, numb from the cold and the mounting fever. The phone slipped from my grasp, clattering against the concrete.
“Stay still,” the guard commanded, pressing his radio to his shoulder. “Medical emergency at terminal door three. Inbound passenger, possible sepsis or severe infection. Send rig immediately.”
I closed my eyes. The cold pavement felt surprisingly soft, like a mattress pulling me down into a deep, dreamless sleep. I didn't want the paramedics. I didn't want the flashing lights or the questions. I just wanted my mother’s pot roast. I wanted the living room in the small Kansas farmhouse where the woodstove crackled and nobody asked me about the war.
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When the sirens finally wailed into existence, they sounded miles away, cutting through the morning fog like a knife.
The last thing I remembered before the darkness pulled me under was a paramedic cutting open the sleeve of my favorite sweatshirt with a pair of heavy shears, exposing the angry, purple-red swelling of my infected stump to the harsh fluorescent lights of the ambulance ceiling.
