Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 64419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
“Thanks for driving,” I said when he pulled up to the curb. “I’ll meet you back here in two hours?”
“Text me when you’re ready to be picked up,” he said. And just like that, I was on the street, free as I had been in Afghanistan.
I walked up the steps to the office building, pushing my way inside. The sunlight dimmed considerably, replaced by electric bulbs. There was a receptionist, but they were too busy talking to another veteran, so I breezed past, determined to find my own way. A chart on the wall near the elevator told me which wing I was looking for. I wound through corridors, past door after door, until I came to the counselor’s suite.
Inside, there was another receptionist, this one focused on her computer screen. I stepped up to the desk. “I have an appointment at ten.”
“Name?”
“Lincoln Matthews.”
“Wait here, Mr. Matthews.” She punched a button on the phone and went back to her work.
I looked back at the waiting area and its thick leather couches. Magazines were strewn over coffee tables and end tables, as if the clientele wouldn’t have cell phones to occupy themselves. There was a tiny space for children in one corner with a bunch of puzzles and books and one of those wooden toys with plastic tracks that only doctors seemed to collect.
I had just picked a seat when my name was called. Standing up, I greeted the counselor with a handshake. He was an older man dressed in civilian clothes. I wondered if he was a veteran and where and when he had served. He didn’t look old enough to have seen combat in Vietnam. Maybe he had seen action in the first Gulf War. He took me back toward his office, down a narrow corridor of mahogany-colored doors.
“Thank you for coming in, Mr. Matthews,” the counselor said, leading me to a chair beside his desk. “I’m Samuel Claymont. I work with combat veterans who’ve suffered injuries.”
I sat down. “That’s me.”
“How have you been sleeping?”
The question took me off guard. I had been ready to talk about benefits, not about my mental health. “Not great.”
“Have you seen a counselor?”
“I’m seeing you,” I answered.
He looked up, unamused. “We have a real problem with suicide, especially among our returning combat veterans.”
“Shit,” I said before I could stop myself. “I’m not thinking about killing myself.”
“It’s not uncommon.”
“Okay.” I wasn’t sure where this was going or what he wanted from me.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed if you’re having trouble reintegrating.”
“Look.” I leaned forward, anxious to put this particular conversation to bed. “I’m not one hundred percent functional. I sleep in my boots. But I’m not thinking of killing myself, and I’m here for my benefits, not a psych evaluation.”
The counselor made a note of that and moved on. “We have determined that you are eligible for these benefits.” He handed me a printout.
I scanned the sheet and saw that my package included health insurance, financial assistance with purchasing a home, and free tuition to any participating college or university. It wasn’t everything I had hoped for. I wanted some actual cash that I could put in my pocket or into my bank account to save up for an eventual escape from Singer’s Ridge.
“I am also pleased to tell you that you’ve been awarded a distinguished service medal.” He pulled out a pleather case from his desk drawer and handed it over.
It was about the size of a cell phone, its sides clipped together by metal clasps. I pulled it open to find a dollar-sized coin with an eagle flapping its wings attached to a red, white, and blue ribbon. It was the government’s way of saying “thank you for taking a bullet for us.” It didn’t seem like much, and yet, within military circles, it meant something. I considered pulling it out and pinning it to my breast to show the world and my father that I was a true soldier. That notion died a quick death, and I snapped the box shut. No one would care. They didn’t care that I was injured, and they wouldn’t care that I had been honored for it. The Army didn’t care enough to set me up with a pension. I had only been in the service for eight years, not the twenty required for cash benefits, never mind that my tour of duty had been cut short.
I took my medal and my printout of benefits that I might never use and walked back outside. I texted my dad from the front steps, sitting down to wait. Opening the box again, I revisited that day. I was lucky to be alive, and that was worth more than distinguished honor. I was well aware that they awarded a lot of these medals posthumously. I considered myself grateful to hold it in my hand.