“You look like shit, McDonald,” he says.
I laugh at his unexpected greeting. It’s the first time I’ve smiled since that awful day.
“How are you holding up?” His wife’s concerned gaze fixes on me, but she remains silent.
I shrug my shoulders. “As well as can be expected. I’m the lucky one. I got out of there alive. Albeit with half as many legs.”My guilty conscience makes an appearance—survivor’s guilt, according to my therapist. “In all honesty, sir, I don’t know. Most days, this all feels like a bad dream. I expect to get out of bed and walk to the fridge for a glass of milk, only to realize I can’t.” He stays completely silent as I speak. It’s obvious he has done this before, spoken to survivors.
“I should be able to go home in a few weeks. Physiotherapy is going well, and I’m lucky the amputation was below the knee. Recovery should be easier than if I lost from below the hip. I get my prosthetic leg fitted soon, too. The next year is going to be full of doctors’ appointments and rehab sessions, from what they tell me.”
Brigadier Marshall clears his throat. “Lance, we have known each other for a long time. I’ve seen men lose limbs over the years and never recover. But you, son, are a strong man. One of the strongest I’ve ever seen. You will come out of this, and you will have a happy life. Even if you can’t serve in the military, you will always be a soldier. A bloody good one.”
He puts his hands on my shoulders, his lips lifting into a sincere smile.
“Let’s remember Dog for the incredible soldier he was today. But tomorrow, you continue to live, not only for yourself but for him.”
Chapter twenty-six
Lance
Six months later, April 2021
“Dad!” Hannah’s shrill voice echoes through the house. “Dad. Come here, quick.”
I hobble as fast as my false leg allows. Things are getting easier, but sprinting on command isn’t possible.
“I’m coming. I’m coming. What’s all the shouting about?”
At the front door, she stands frozen, holding it wide open, staring at something on the doorstep, her eyes on stalks.
A silver pram sits at the bottom of our steps.
“Dad,” she whispers. “Someone left a baby in the garden. A whole baby.”
On instinct, my military brain goes into assessment mode.
The parents are nowhere to be seen. No passing cars. No voices.
The child, I presume is a boy, must only be weeks old. A tiny thing wrapped in blue blankets, sleeping soundly with his thumb securely fixed in his mouth.
“Just keep an eye on him, Hannah. His mother can’t be far away,” I command.
When I return, Hannah’s puzzled eyes search my face.
“There’s a note,” she says. “It was tucked into his blanket. It has Dog’s name on it.”
“Dog’s name?” I repeat, confused.
She hands over the folded paper withDogscribbled on the front in blue pen. I look at it, perplexed, unsure what to say. On opening the note, my heart cracks wide. No one could have envisoned this.
Dog,
Our holiday romance in Ibiza has had unexpected consequences.
This is your son.
I haven’t named him. He was born on the 16th of March.
He needs to be registered by 27th April, before he’s 42 days old.