Page 42 of Duty Devoted
“You’re not a kid. And you actually listen when someone’s trying to help you.”
“Most kids do too, if you approach them right.”
Logan made a noncommittal sound and focused on navigating around a pool of standing water that looked deceptively shallow. But I caught him glancing at me with what might have been curiosity, like he was reassessing assumptions he’d made about himself.
By midday, we’d made decent progress despite the challenging terrain. The landscape was definitely changing—fewer massive trees, more open spaces filled with standing water, and the ground that squelched under our feet even in the “dry” areas.
“Lunch break,” Logan announced, selecting a fallen log that would serve as both seating and table. “How are your feet holding up?”
“Still attached, which I’m counting as a win.” I settled beside him, grateful for the rest. “Though I’m pretty sure my boots will never be the same.”
“Jungle has a way of destroying gear.” Logan pulled out our remaining can of food, studying the label. “Beans again. Sorry about the limited menu.”
“Beans are fine. Better than some of the field rations I’ve heard about.”
“You’ve heard about MREs?”
“Medical school friends who went military. They had stories.” I accepted the can and spoon from him, noting how he’d portioned out a smaller serving for himself without making it obvious. I took a bite and handed both back to him. “Meals Rejected by Everyone, right?”
“Meals Refusing to Exit.” Logan’s grin was quick and genuine as he took his turn with the spoon. “Though, honestly, after a few days in the field, anything hot counts as gourmet.”
“Is that why you appreciate real coffee so much?”
“That and about a hundred other small comforts you don’t think about until they’re gone.” Logan leaned back against a tree trunk, passing the can back to me. “Hot showers, cold beer, beds that don’t have rocks poking through.”
“Beds that aren’t made of broken cots and jungle floors?”
“Those too.”
I found myself studying his profile as he scanned our surroundings. Even relaxed, he had a readiness to him, a coiled energy that never quite dissipated.
“Do you ever truly relax?” I asked, accepting the can for another bite. “Not just tactical rest?”
“Sometimes.” Logan looked at me sideways. “Why?”
“You’re always monitoring everything around us. Even now, eating lunch, you’re calculating threats and escape routes.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Or trauma response.” I kept my tone conversational, medical rather than judgmental. “Hypervigilance is one of the hallmarks of PTSD. Your brain trying to protect you from threats that might not exist.”
Logan’s jaw tightened. “Plenty of threats exist out here.”
“True. But I bet you were just as watchful back at the clinic, and that was relatively safe.”
He was quiet for a moment, then surprised me by answering. “Multiple tours in combat zones tend to rewire your threat-assessment systems. Sometimes the wiring gets stuck.”
“That’s actually a pretty good description of how PTSD works.” I finished the last of my beans, then leaned back against my own tree. “Have you ever talked to anyone about it? Found strategies that help?”
“Tried once. Didn’t work out.”
“What happened?”
“Lady kept trying to get me toprocess my feelingsabout combat.” Disdain dripped from his words. “Like talking about watching people die was going to magically fix anything.”
That sucked. Anyone who’d spent more than five minutes in Logan’s company should’ve been able to see that traditional methods wouldn’t be a good fit for him. “Not all therapy is about processing feelings. Sometimes it’s about learning coping strategies or retraining your brain’s threat-response systems.”
“You sound like you know about this stuff.”
