He's unbuckling a sleeping Sean from his car-seat—they'd watched most of the parade (he'll never understand why the Staten Island parade is held at twilight) but it's past the boys' bedtime, and the fireworks that are supposed to start in 20 minutes are just going to scare them—when a loud boom shakes the ground under his feet.

He dives for cover, and it's not the hot asphalt of their driveway that he hits…

A whistle signals approaching doom. He yells "RPG!" and hits the ground. The sand burns his hands and nose, vibrates under him, shaking his bones as the RPG hits barely 20 yards away. That was a f*** close one.

He yells out Jonesy's name—at least, he thinks he does. He can't even hear his own voice over the high-pitched ringing in his ears—it's getting more and more constant. He's going to be deaf before he's 40 if this keeps up.

Sand and smoke burn his nostrils. He's never going to touch a cigar or a pipe or a fire if he makes it out of this hellhole alive. All the f** Vicks VapoRub in the world isn't gonna get rid of that smell.

He lifts his head just enough to lick his lips without getting a mouthful of sand. Not that his mouth could get any drier than it already is.

He thinks he yells again—and then hands are on his face, and he pushes them away, telling Jonesy he's fine and to leave him the f*** alone…

Except Jonesy doesn't wear perfume.

Why the hell can he smell perfume in this hellhole? Specifically, Linda's perfume?

"Danny, look at me. you're safe, babe. You're home. That was just a firework."

That f** explosion must've really s** with him if he's hallucinating Linda…

He rubs the sand out of his eyes, stares at the ground. Linda's hot pink Converse shoes do not belong in Fallujah.

"L…Linda…?"

"Yeah, it's me, babe. You're safe. You're home with me, on Staten Island. It was just the fireworks. You…you had a flashback, honey."

"Sean?"

"The boys are fine; Janie's watching them. You didn't…yell, or anything. You just…collapsed."

He sits up, wincing. His hands are scraped, his knees burning underneath his rough jeans, and his head is killing him.

He curses furiously.

"Danny…hey, look at me."

He shakes his head, pats his pocket for his keys. "I…I should go. I'll…spend the night at Dad's."

"No, you won't. Why would you do that?"

He stares at his sneakers. "So you and the boys are safe. So you can sleep."

"We're safest when you're home with us. You've been home five months, babe. The only person you've hurt in those five months…is yourself. Help me get the boys in bed, and we'll take a nice, hot bath."

He shakes his head, flinching a little as the fireworks boom again and again and again.

His heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest, and he can't breathe.

He pulls at the neck of his USMC t-shirt.

Linda crawls into his lap. "Danny, look at me."

He shakes his head, tries to pull away. "I don't want to hurt you."

She puts her hands on his shoulders. "You're not gonna hurt me, babe. You're talking to me, you know who I am, you know where you are…you're not there anymore. You're not having a flashback anymore. This is real, I promise."

He hangs his head. "I'm sorry."

She kisses him fiercely, and his mouth legit hurts when she pulls away. "What was that for?"

"To remind you not to apologize to me ever again for having PTSD. Come on."

His breath catches at that—the stupid 4-letter acronym. "Disorder"…he's a soldier, not a broken vending machine. And he hasn't been diagnosed with anything by any doctor, thank you very much.

He follows her to Janie's, gets the boys, helps Linda put them to bed.

Another barrage of fireworks—this time the stupid ones that whistle overhead—sends him to a corner of the bathroom, wedged in between the wall and the toilet.

A strong whiff of perfume brings him back, and he blinks, confused. Linda's sitting in front of him, holding her perfume at his nose. "I filled the tub, babe."

He shakes his head. He's shaking like he's been on night patrol in that godforsaken desert for 8 hours. "I can't…"

"Danny, hon, this is just to help you relax. I'm not trying to start anything—not with you this upset. I just want to get you relaxed so you can sleep."

He doubts he'll sleep for the rest of the week, but he shucks off his shirt, and doesn't resist when she reaches for his zipper.

His teeth are chattering. He hates how f** freezing cold the…flashbacks, if that's what they are…make him.

He follows her into the tub, sinks under the scalding water.

The rug burns on his hands and knees sting, and he hisses in pain. "Dammit."

"Can I give you a backrub?"

He shakes his head. "Can you just…hold me?"

Her hands come around his shoulders, clasping in front of his chest, and she runs his hand over his tattoo. "Does it hurt?"

He blinks. "Huh?"

"Your tattoo. You rub it a lot…I thought maybe it hurt."

He shakes his head.

"Danny, hon, I really wish you'd talk to me, instead of…working too many hours and taking on the punching-bag with your bare hands."

"Why? So you'd have nightmares, too? It's not something you need to hear."

"I want to help."

"You can't, Linda. You know why? Because I'm fine! I don't have PTSD; I passed the f** exam just fine."

He can't tell her he lied on it…lied through his teeth, so he could get home to her and the boys.

Because if he had told the truth…it would have meant months of letters and forms and paperwork and packets; evals from doctors and shrinks; and having to tell them over and over and over again every single detail.

And then, with his luck…they'd probably have told him he was too messed up in the head to work as a detective anymore.

And then…well, this hot bathtub, with Linda's mouth on his neck, is not the place to think about his contingency plan.

He turns to face her, and the only fireworks he hears now are the ones she's causing in his body and brain—fireworks that remind him, not of hell and hate and death, but of heaven and love and life.

Later, when they're lying in bed, sated and relaxed—she'd fallen asleep ten minutes after her head hit the pillow—he realizes she hadn't challenged him when he said he didn't have PTSD.

That's strange; she's always after him to talk about his feelings, to open up, tells him it's not weakness to admit he's not okay. Maybe she'd realized that he'd hit the breaking-point after that…after he had a f** flashback in front of his sons.

It's not PTSD; it's just…that other thing. Acute Stress Syndrome or Symptom or whatever it's called.

Danny Reagan is fine. He's got two cute kids, a very cute wife, and a job, and he doesn't have to watch his buddies get blown up anymore.

Now he just needs to figure out how to make fireworks—the kind that require matches, not the ones Linda gives him—illegal in all 50 States…