Page 90 of Viking

Logan

I wake with a strangled scream, the sound ripped from my throat. My lungs burn like I’ve been choking on smoke, my shoulder’s on fire, and sweat slicks my skin, dampening the sheets that twist around my legs like restraints.

The dream clings. Ryan’s voice crackles in my headset. His last words are Reaper’s—I got you—and then the world explodes. The hiss of the missile screaming past me, the roar of fire engulfing his jet, the sharp pop of static over comms, the gut-punch silence after. His face morphing into Reap’s is the last thing I see before the sky swallows him whole, and the echo of their names tears through me even as I jolt awake.

Minutes pass—or maybe seconds—before I can convince my body to move. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and wait for the tremor in my hands to subside. I sit there in the dark, chest heaving, heart jackhammering against my ribs. My shoulder throbs in time with it—a cruel reminder that none of this is just a dream. I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, like I can scrub the images away, but they burn deeper, brighter.

I press my feet against the cool concrete floor and force myself to start the day. To get in the shower, get dressed, and get to PT.

To step into the newest circle of hell—passive range of motion.

That’s what they call it when someone else moves your arm because you can’t.

It feels more like torture.

***

My fingers curl into the padded table as Staff Sergeant Keller gently lifts my arm overhead. I breathe through my nose and focus on the ceiling, where a fan spins with lazy indifference. Each inch higher feels like he’s ripping through my shoulder.

“Try to relax, Captain,” Keller says, his voice calm but firm.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Working on it.”

He doesn’t respond. Just keeps lifting, inch by inch. My shoulder burns. I swear it’s laughing at me.

“You’re holding your breath again,” Keller says. “Breathe through it.”

I exhale slowly, jaw clenched so tight it aches. “You ever try relaxing while someone tears your arm off?”

“I’ve had worse patients,” he says, deadpan. “One guy punched me in the face during an isometric stretch.”

I snort, despite myself. “Bet he got better faster.”

“He passed out two seconds later.”

I close my eyes, breathing through another wave of pain. “Sounds about right.”

We lapse into silence. Keller gently lowers my arm back down and reaches for the towel draped over a heating pad.

“You’re stronger than you were last week,” he says.

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

“That’s because you’re still in it. When you’re climbing out of a hole, you don’t notice the progress until you’re staring at daylight.”

“I’m not exactly climbing,” I say. “More like…crawling in circles.”

The circles of hell.

He unwraps the heating pad and lays it across my shoulder. “Crawling’s still forward.”

“Not when it feels like I’m going nowhere.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just adjusts the heat, then starts prepping for the next stretch. “Your range is increasing. It’s slow, but it’s there. And you’re here, doing the work. That’s more than most.” He pauses, glances at me. “You know,” Keller begins casually, “you pilots always look like you’re slumming it when you’re in fatigues.”

I give a humorless chuckle. “That obvious?” I’m not wearing them now—had to change into PTs—but I get what he’s saying.

He shrugs. “You guys walk different in flight suits. Like you’re made for the sky. That,” he gestures toward my uniform draped over the chair in the corner, “makes you look like the rest of us.”