The next few hours were a blur. A doctor gave me words that meant nothing. A soldier came to deliver Ivan's tags. I don't remember taking them, but when I opened my palm, they were there. Cold. Heavy. Wrong.
He was supposed to be here. Complaining about the food. Smirking through a busted lip. Telling me I worried too much.
He wasn't supposed to be reduced to metal and silence.
They told me I was lucky to survive.
I didn't feel lucky. I didn't feel anything.
The first few weeks after the surgery were spent in a blur of painkillers, tubes, and therapists trying too hard. I couldn't walk. Could barely sit up. I stared at the ceiling until I started seeing Ivan's face in the flicker of the fluorescent lights. He was always smiling. That stupid, lopsided grin he'd wear whenever I scolded him for something reckless.
But this time, the smile never reached his eyes.
