“Guess I won’t be running any time soon.”
Captain Brandt hesitated. He probably knew the prognosis better than Jack. “Running? Might be a while for that.” Brandt took a breath, then dared some honesty. “Think your running days may be down the road a bit.”
Down the road a bit.
As in never.
Jack nodded as best he could.
Then: “I’ll run. Might be a bit lopsided. Might have a bit of limp. But I’ll run.”
Captain smiled back.
“I bet you will.”
Running.
It was about more than just exercise. Things happened fast out on the streets. Fast. And running, as if some primal ability resurrected from our cave and jungle days, could be the difference between life and death.
“You’re eating well?”
Another nod. Both of them avoiding talk of that day. The first time Brandt visited, Jack had been so doped up, the captain had been a blur, drifting in and out of focus, the sound of his voice echoing from miles away.
Today was better.
That was good.
Today, Jack wanted to ask a few questions.
“Captain, I wanted to thank the guys who got me. I mean, I was gone. How long before—”
Brandt patted Jack’s shoulder.
“Jack, we can review everything later. I don’t think now’s the time.”
Jack couldn’t stop thinking about it, remembering. The smells, the Can Heads all over the place. Rodriguez. And somehow he had been able to stop them.
That part—stopping them—no, that still didn’t seem real.
But he had done it.
“Any more trouble there? That building?”