Just like every Tuesday and Friday, I scan the crowd for the one man that makes it all worthwhile. I see him sitting off to the side staring in my direction. His gaze warms me from the inside out.
I head straight to Mark. He’s a twenty-seven year old man who lost his right leg in Kabul, Afghanistan. His face is slightly disfigured from the IED that threw shrapnel in his direction. He has the most beautiful brown eyes and hair the color of cognac.
I have a soft spot for him. On some level, I think I love him. I’ve watched him recover slowly. When he first came to the hospital, he didn’t talk to anyone. He was a violent and angry man. His therapist made him come to my gathering as part of his weekly requirement for discharge. He would sulk in the corner, and if anyone approached him, he would yell or swat at them. He was willing to show up, but he wasn’t ready to participate. That was eight months ago
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