Flann was the only one Glenn ever talked about it with, and then only because Flann knew what not to ask. Flann wanted to know technical details—how battlefront medics handled traumatic injuries, how they saved lives in greater numbers than in any previous war. She never asked how the pain and terror and fear of failure affected those who knelt in the dirt and blood and smoke and waged their own personal wars on death. Glenn never minded talking about the things Flann wanted to know. Medicine was medicine, and the battlefield had taught her more than a lifetime of civilian practice in a clean, bright operating room stocked with everything she might need and all the help she’d ever want ever could. She remembered the day Flann had said she envied her the experience, and Glenn got that too. No one else would really understand what it was like to be pushed to the edge of her skill and knowledge and ability only to discover it wasn’t enough, that she needed to do more. Risk more.
“I’m sorry,” Mari said quietly. “I imagine it’s something private, something you might not want to talk about. Your story to tell.”
Glenn realized she must have gone silent. “A familiar story.”
“Not when it’s yours.”
“I’m glad I was there,” Glenn said, for the first time really knowing it was true. “Someone needed to be.”
“There must be hundreds, more, who are glad you were,” Mari said gently.
“I didn’t do anything anyone else didn’t do.” Glenn shrugged. “Nothing remarkable, nothing worth reliving.”
“If I ever do, I have a feeling it would be you.”
Glenn spoke so quietly she might have been talking to herself, but Mari heard the words, sensed them settle in the deepest part of her like a cherished gift. She took a second until the tightness in her throat abated. “Are you really going running?”
“Sure, why?”
“For one thing, it’s dark, and besides that, weren’t you up half the night operating with Flann?”
“Yeah,” Glenn said, not quite following Mari’s questions.
Mari laughed. “Well, aren’t you tired?”
“Oh no, not really. I don’t need much sleep.”
“Apparently.” Mari pointed to her house. “I’m in there. Second floor.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Thanks for dinner. Be careful running.”
“I will.” Glenn was pretty sure she didn’t have anything to be careful about, but Mari’s concern felt weirdly good. She waited on the sidewalk until Mari unlocked her door, turned, and waved.
“Night!” Mari called.
“Night,” Glenn whispered, and started to run.
Chapter Nine
Glenn never ran the same route twice. Habit was a dangerous thing. Habit could get you killed. She usually headed for the narrow roads on the outskirts of the village and then looped around the borders between town and farmland, avoiding the populated residential streets where kids and dogs congregated in the road and on sidewalks until dark. Tonight she threaded her way through the mostly empty alleys and service roads behind the businesses on Main Street and across the abandoned, overgrown railroad tracks that once transported corn and milk and flax from the surrounding farms toward the river, where barges carried the goods south and west. The train, like an interrupted lifeline on a scarred palm, no longer linked communities in the heart of the upland farms, although a freight train cut across the countryside close enough for Glenn to hear its lonely whistle crying in the night. At dawn and dusk, her favorite times to run, the roads were mostly empty, and only her footfalls kept her company.
Within minutes, her body settled into its patterned rhythm, and her senses opened to the night. Air moist with a hint of rain and smelling of freshly turned earth, crushed blossoms, and tendrils of charcoal smoke streamed over her skin. Wisps of clouds raced overhead, daring her to keep pace on their wild dash across the face of the moon. A dog barked. A coyote answered with a distant howl. Her heart tattooed a beat that kept pace with the slap of rubber soles on asphalt. Usually this far into her run her mind had stilled, bereft of thought for the only time all day.
