The stranger's cool unblinking gaze was unmoving, focused only on John.
"Afghanistan," said the man, expression barely changing, lips barely moving. And John barely heard the next words: "Or Iraq?"
John has learnt to appear unmoved when people mentioned the war. At first, it had taken effort not to cry, shout or run. Now, he simply shuts his eyes for the briefest, most unnoticeable of moments at that damn word. Repeated practice soon became a habit and that habit, second nature. Drowning, but dry on the outside.
John supposed you weren't meant to do that in therapy, but oh well.
Now, this man stood in front of him and demanded to know where he had fought. The man's expression fell into neither of the two usual camps: pity or, even worse, unrestrained, crude fascination. It just demanded an answer, as if it were a solution to a scientific conundrum. John was a doctor: he could sympathise with a technical line of questioning.
Though he wondered how his state of mind could ever be so interesting.
"Afghanistan," he said back, and he was surprised to hear his voice was soft, and there was no flood. Just a single, manageable memory: Patrick, clad in a layer of sunny dirt, squinting at John, as behind Patrick light and fire and perhaps the sun itself pumped the air and Patrick to a pop of red.
Afghanistan, John repeated in his head again. Perhaps he could cope with the detached way this new man mentioned it. No flood. Just a trickle he could wipe away.