Page 41 of Duty Devoted
“How far to Puerto Esperanza now?”
“Maybe twenty kilometers as the crow flies. But we’re not crows.” He adjusted his pack and started toward what looked like an impassable wall of vegetation. “The terrain’s about to change. Gets swampy from here on.”
Following Logan through the jungle was like watching a master class in problem-solving. When a fallen tree blocked our path, he found ways under, over, or around it. When standing water forced a detour, he chose routes that minimized our exposure while still making progress.
“How do you know which way to go?” I asked as we balanced across a massive trunk suspended over churning water. “Everything looks the same to me.”
“Sun position, slope of the land, water flow direction.” Logan waited for me to catch up before continuing. “Plus, I’ve been keeping track of our general heading since we started.”
“Mental compass?”
“More like internal GPS. You develop it when getting lost means getting dead.”
He offered his hand to help me down from the log. His grip was warm and steady, callused from years of physical work. Iprobably held on longer than necessary, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“What else did they teach you in the Marines?” I asked as we continued through increasingly wet terrain. “Besides coffee and navigation?”
“Coffee-making is definitely not a Marine skill. That’s pure civilian self-preservation.” Logan tested the stability of a fallen branch before using it as a stepping-stone. “But they taught me to improvise, adapt, overcome. Whatever situation you’re in, figure out how to make it work.”
“Sounds like good life advice in general.”
“Works for tactical situations. Less helpful for…” He paused, seeming to reconsider his words. “Other things.”
The hesitation made me curious, but before I could probe deeper, the solid ground gave way to pools of dark water.
“We’re heading into swamp territory, might as well start your education now. Rule one: if it looks like solid ground but there are no plants growing on it, it’s probably not solid ground.”
The detour took us through dense undergrowth that soaked us both. Vines caught at our clothes, thorns scraped exposed skin, and humidity made every breath feel like drinking from the air. But Logan never complained, never showed frustration with the slow progress.
“You’re enjoying this,” I realized as we emerged from a particularly challenging thicket. “All the problem-solving and route-finding.”
“Better than sitting in an office somewhere,” Logan admitted. “I like work that requires thinking on your feet.”
“What would you be doing if you weren’t doing this? If you’d stayed civilian after the Marines?”
Logan was quiet for so long, I thought he wasn’t going to answer. Finally, he said, “No idea. That’s part of the problem.”
“You never thought about it? College, career training, normal civilian job?”
“Normal civilian job doing what?” Logan held back a branch so I could pass through without getting smacked. “Sit in a cubicle somewhere, pushing papers around? Pretend to care about quarterly reports and office politics?”
“There are other options. Teaching, maybe? You’re good at explaining things.”
“Who’s going to hire an ex-Marine with PTSD to teach kids?”
The admission slipped out before he could stop it, and I saw him tense as he realized what he’d revealed. PTSD. That explained the hypervigilance, the way he sometimes seemed to be listening to sounds the rest of us couldn’t hear.
“PTSD doesn’t disqualify you from teaching,” I said carefully. “Lots of veterans work in education.”
“Maybe.” His tone carried a warning that this topic was closed. “Speaking of education, we should probably focus on getting you through Swamp Navigation 101.”
I recognized the deflection but decided to let it go. He’d already revealed more than he’d intended.
“Fine,” I said. “But for the record, I think you’d make a good teacher. You’ve been teaching me survival skills all morning without making me feel stupid for not knowing them.”
A flicker of surprise crossed his features. “That’s different.”
“How?”
