When he gets a call from his dad inviting him over for drinks, his first thought is who died?
But, while his kid brother and his dad look somber, they don't look sad, and he accepts the Scotch from his dad, sips it.
"Jamie's been helping an old buddy of yours. Jill Carmaga," his dad says.
The glass slips from his hand, shattering…
Shattering glass and a mini-earthquake tipping over his Humvee …screams of men as limbs were ripped from their bodies…the smell of burning flesh, burning gasoline, burning metal…Jill screaming his name as she pushed him to safety
A hand on his shoulder has him lashing out, his fist making contact with something firm.
When he snaps back to reality, Jamie's sitting on the floor with a busted lip.
Damn, he hasn't had a flashback that bad in…
"Sorry, kid. I…thought she was dead. Haven't heard that name in…a long time." He knows the exact number of years and months and days, but…he isn't ready to say that out loud.
"No," Jamie says, holding an ice-cube to his lip. "Homeless, addicted, 22 arrests in the last seven years, failed rehab three times already."
"How do you know this?" he demands, glaring at his kid brother.
Jamie doesn't say anything.
"Your brother's been helping her out…somehow he found out you were in Iraq together," his dad says.
"She made me swear not to tell anyone," Jamie mutters.
His dad nods sagely. "Jamie kept his promise to her; he didn't tell me. I found out about the connection to you, through some detective work of my own."
"How'd you know who she is?" he asks his kid brother.
"She's got a 'Semper Fi' tattoo like yours, on her arm. Years she was there, too. And…when I first arrested her, fingerprints turned up the after-action report. I read it, saw some pictures."
So his brother…his kid brother…has seen pictures of the things that haunt his dreams.
Jamie has seen pictures of the IED attack.
He has to get out of here before he has another flashback, but he needs more information first.
He rubs his forehead, where a headache is growing. "Where's she…staying?"
"I asked her to meet me at the community center on Saturday," his dad says. "If she runs into you instead of me, so be it."
He nods, cleans up the glass and the whiskey, apologizes to Jamie for his lip, and leaves.
The flashback is still too fresh, and he doesn't trust himself to drive home, so he sits in his car and does his stupid breathing exercises.
He's counting backwards from 100 by 7's…Doc said the harder it was, the more it would help him focus…when there's a knock on the window.
He unlocks, the door, surprised when his dad gets in the front passenger seat. "Talk to me, Danny."
He stares at the dust on his dashboard. "Jamie saw the after-action report," he says, blinking his eyes to try to make the images go away.
"Yes. He said he threw up after he saw some of the pictures."
That's exactly what he feels like doing.
He swallows thickly, licks his dry lips. "Why…didn't she want me to know?"
His father looks at him as if to say Do you really have to ask?
"She was ashamed, Danny. From decorated Marine veteran…to homeless and drug-addicted. She was also afraid…Jamie says she thought seeing her might trigger you. I think I'd have to agree with her, after what you did to Jamie's nose."
He nods, yawns exaggeratedly, and tells his dad he needs to get going.
He changes into his rattiest clothes—the ones he'd used a few months back for his undercover stint as a homeless person—slips into Grand Central Station later that night.
He finds an older man who he figures has been here a while. "What's her story?" he asks, nodding his head toward Jill and putting a finger to his lips.
"Her? She don't need to be here; she just needs to suck it up and pull herself up by her own damn bootstraps," the man scoffs. "People have tried over the years; she don't want help. Claims she's a vet—don't act like one, or she'd stop using."
He clenches his hands into fists under his ratty blanket. Punching the old geezer won't do Jill any good.
"What about the people who try to help her? Anybody stick out?"
"What are you, a cop?" the old man snorts. "Nah, you stink too much. Yeah, this kid—looks like a Boy Scout. They got into it the other day. She told him she never asked him to help; told him she wasn't a good person, and she already lost the fight with her demons. When they give up like that…it ain't good, man," the man nods, and curls up into his blankets, turning his back to Danny.
He makes his escape as soon as the old man starts snoring.
He showers, sits on the edge of his bed, and takes some deep breaths.
Jill is alive.
It's been 16 years, 3 months, and 21 days since he'd seen her.
Another person he owes a debt to…a debt he can't repay.
Bobby LaRue, Corporal Jimmy Beal, and the guys in his unit…he tries to repay that debt every day.
And Jill…if he can convince her to help herself, get her to see that she's worth fighting for, that she can beat the addiction…then maybe…maybe that'll be one tiny step toward his own redemption.
Jamie had made a promise to a hero—that's why he'd never told him.
He, Danny Reagan, had made a promise to himself—that he wasn't going to let their memories fade. And he had broken that promise by just accepting what he'd been told without double-checking.
Seven years ago…that was about the time he failed to save John Russell's life. If he had known Jill was alive, in New York, he could have made up for that—and helped her then.
He should have tried to keep tabs on her after he came home. Granted, he wasn't in a good head-space when he came home, but…he still should have reached out.
Except, now that he has seen her, though from a distance, he knows why he didn't. because it would have hurt too much, brought back memories he didn't want to face. Which is also why he doesn't talk about Fallujah—it hurts too much. But the memories stalk his nightmares anyway.
He looks at the picture of him and Linda on their wedding day. "Help me help her, babe. Give me the right words on Saturday," he pleads, and lies down to stare at the ceiling for the rest of the night.