David was relieved that he didn't have to describe his memories to Kim, not unless he wanted to. When he did choose to tell her things—as he was choosing to do more and more often—she just listened. Then she would give him different relaxation and coping techniques to use when the flashbacks occurred. There was deep breathing, progressive relaxation, journaling.

"I've been doing that," he said. "Marie got me started doing that."

"Good!" Kim said, positive. "No wonder you've made so much progress. My only advice is to let it take you where it's going, rather than trying to push for answers."

He found that her suggestions seemed to be helping. He felt less overwhelmed by memories and dreams. Less torn up by Drächen's demands for Marie, able to focus on comforting the child rather than withdrawing from his searing sense of culpability.

His shoulder healed up nicely and within six weeks, he was building back up to his usual 300 pushups and 50 pullups daily. It was easy to give up his Vicoprofen now that the shoulder didn't ache all the time.

"Geert does good work," he told Kim. They were running along the road near the orphanage. He had her up to six miles per day. By about mile four, he noticed, the skin on her face, arms and legs tended to go from strawberries and cream to a pleasing red flush.

"They say he's the best," she looked down at the road, avoiding a muddy pothole. The rains had been frequent and intense lately.

David glanced at her. They were right at the four mile mark, judging from her complexion. "Wasn't he too old for you?" he asked, briskly.

Kim was focused on the rhythm of running, dodging puddles. "Yeah," she grunted, somewhat absent-mindedly.

"What was that all about?"

"Mmmmm… Boredom? Lonliness? Stress?"

"Maybe you ought to have your family send you some books and magazines to liven things up for you around here," he told her, conversationally. "Or else, next thing you know, you may be going after Father John." One side of his mouth was working upward, in defiance of his attempt to appear serious.

He found himself flat on his back in the road, the whump of his body meeting the ground echoing in his ears. Kim had one heel planted in his groin where his right leg met the hip and she was gripping his left leg just above the knee, yanking. Hard. The rich supply of nerve endings that lived there was definitely awake now. She had blocked and flipped him, using the momentum of his pace as an aid. Element of surprise, he thought, trying to save face with himself. (1)

She was looking for him to admit submission by patting twice on the ground or his body, Marine Corps Martial Arts Program-style. That was just not going to happen. Ignoring the pain she was inflicting on his hip and the pressure point on the inside of his knee—not to mention her heel's proximity to his privates—he hooked his left leg over her head, and pushed her to one side with it, breaking her grip. Quick, but every move controlled so as not to hurt her. Maybe because of that, he failed to achieve a submission hold. She spun away and danced out of his reach.

David jumped up. Kim was coiled on the balls of her feet, hands up and ready to defend herself. He had sixty pounds on her, easy. Nonetheless, her mouth was set, and her hazel eyes snapped and sparked at him. "C'mon, Marine," she invited. " 'One Mind; Any Weapon.' "

"Hey, Irish," he said, mildly, hands up in the air and open, "Don't get your Irish up." He started walking up the road again, trying not to limp, and she dropped her hands and fell in beside him. "You might've had me if you had hit that nerve center a little harder," he lied. He made her out to be Brown Belt. Not kid stuff, but no match to the skills he'd gained since SOC and Treadstone. He realized with some satisfaction that he had kept his head, stayed in control. He had held on to David. Jason Bourne might have broken her arm, bloodied her appealing face.

Kim shrugged, suppressing a gloat, picking some mud from his shoe out of her ponytail. "Well, I didn't want to hurt you, with your bum knee and all. Just teach you some respect. Besides, it's been a while since I did any MCMAP."

"Two more miles," he said, and they started jogging again.

Kim looked over at him. "My tour with MSF is up. They'll send me home next week."

"Oh?"

She noticed that a slight crease visited his forehead.

"Father John invited me to stay. I'm considering it."

"Oh."

Was that a little bit of a smile?

"There's still work to do here…" And I'm not ready to say goodbye. "Besides, who else is going to let me kick his ass just for fun?" She knew he could have pinned her in a millisecond, if he wanted; or worse, if he wasn't in control. She trusted that he didn't; that he was.

David Webb nodded, mouth a straight line. Noticed her looking at him, and felt the corner of his mouth trying to creep up again. They finished their six in companionable silence.

(1) If you don't believe that this is possible, search "Marine Corps Martial Arts" on youtube, or look at www(period)youtube(period)com/watch?veYl8QsR49cg&featurerelated.

Another youtube video at www(period)youtube(period)com/watch?vGl2Kdfula3I&featurerelated shows a slower breakdown of this classic MCMAP throw, but has a lot of cute editing to it.