A garden?”
Sarah stopped typing. She didn’t turn around immediately. The room went silent, save for the hum of the air conditioning.
“I don’t have cats,” she said quietly. “And I don’t really have a home to go to anymore. My husband passed five years ago.”
“Sorry,” Sterling said, the automatic reflex of politeness kicking in.
“Civilian life has its own tragedies, I suppose.”
Sarah turned then, and for the first time, Sterling saw a flash of fire in her eyes. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, but it unsettled him. “You think the uniform is the only thing that makes a soldier, Colonel?” she asked.
“I think the uniform represents a sacrifice you can’t comprehend,” he said, doubling down. “You treat the wounds, sure, but you don’t know how we got them. You don’t know the sound of the snap-hiss of a bullet, or the smell of burning diesel and blood.
You fix us up and send us back. You’re a mechanic. We are the race cars.”
“A mechanic,” she repeated.
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