She's been working twenty-hour shifts for longer than she can remember, when it's only been two weeks. They've all been working them, these long shifts that leave them more than tired, more than exhausted. Her partner even goes down to the Pile, digs through the rubble and coughs during their shift, this horrible sounding thing that makes it sound as if he's trying to get rid of his lungs.
She gets home after one of these shifts; her husband is propped up in the bed, watching the news which consists of reports related to September 11th. She sits on the bed, undoes her shoes, throws them down on the floor. She pulls up her knee, looks at the television, lets the words sweep over her, not really listening. The images are enough.
Enough to make her cry.
She hasn't cried, not really. She's been to more memorials than she cares to remember, a number she knows is forever lost to every police officer who attended them. Even to a few of those officers she knew, whether from the Academy or who she worked with at one point. Either way, it doesn't really matter, because they're gone and up until now, she was numb. She went about work, drove past suddenly thankful citizens, and none of it mattered until now. She would wave and accept the gratitude of complete strangers, but she didn't realize what they were really saying until now.
Her tears fall, and her husband, although he rubs her back and takes her into his arms, he doesn't understand. Although it's his city and his country too, he doesn't understand. He's never understood her dedication to her job, no matter how dangerous it gets, and he doesn't really understand her sorrow over it now.
It's all he can do.
Hold her.
And wait.
To understand.