Specialist Dune
sat in the doctor’s waiting room inside the 166th Transportation Unit’s
headquarters. Captain Stevens served as its physician and psychiatrist.
Dune, since she
took a bullet in the sandbox two months ago, often saw Stevens as both.
She, during her
first two sessions with Stevens, defensively dodged his questions. They
eventually decided that Dune did this because her first-grade teacher
humiliated her students whenever they incorrectly answered her questions.
Another soldier
sat across from Dune in the waiting room. He grinned. A lump of chewing tobacco
bulged his cheek. “Ain’t you that female got herself shot last January?” His
grin widened. “You must be one tough, little cookie.”
She frowned.
He rolled his
eyes. “Come on, now. That was a compliment.”
“No, it wasn’t,”
she said. “I did my job and got hurt. You shouldn’t find that cute.”
She doubted anyone
would call a recently wounded, male soldier a “tough, little cookie.”
The door to the
doctor’s main office opened. “Specialist Dune?” Stevens asked. “You ready?”
She entered his office,
sat at the edge of its small bed while he checked her blood pressure.
His television sat
on a nearby counter. Onscreen, Alice and the Mad Hatter rested beneath the
sheets of his bed.
“I do wish you
hadn’t yelled, ‘Change Places’ every time you wanted to switch positions,”
Alice said. Fake laughter echoed from the television’s speakers.
Stevens nodded.
“Your blood pressure improved, Dune.” With twin tears of Velcro, he removed the blood pressure monitor’s cuff from her arm. “Do you still dream
about the mission? The one where you took a bullet?”
Her gaze fell upon
the ugly scar that decorated her left arm. She would never again silently pass
through a metal detector. “I just wish we wore more armor.”
“I just wished you
hadn’t cheated on me,” Alice told the hatter. More fake laughs from the TV.
“What makes you
think I cheated on you?” asked the hatter.
Stevens
straightened. “You know, Specialist, we have access to some new technologies.
We’re looking for volunteers who want to try it.”
Dune’s eyes
narrowed. “What sorts of technologies?”
Steven used a tiny
flashlight to check inside Dune’s ears. “One involves a medication that strengths your skin. After a few weeks of treatment,
you permanently thicken it to the point that it becomes bulletproof.”
Dune blinked.
Seriously?
Alice told the Mad
Hatter, “I saw the white rabbit running about in a panic. She said that she was
‘late for a very important date,’ and when I asked her what she meant by that,
she told me that you impregnated the poor thing.” Fake
laughter.
Stevens set aside
his flashlight. “Would that sort of treatment interest you?”
“Side effects?”
Dune asked.
“Your skin will
lose sensitivity,” Stevens said. “You won’t feel soft
things or light touches.”
* * *
Dune, about a
month after her final treatment, performed morning PT with her squad in front
of the motor pool. She and about twenty other soldiers labored through push-ups
while they arranged themselves before an audience of Hummers.
Dune marveled at
how little she could sense the rough pavement beneath her hands and knees. The
treatments she endured had thickened her skin, but she could no longer feel the
softness of her pillow or the warmth in a hug.
“Iiiiiiiiiiiiiin
cadence,” their drill instructor shouted.
“Iiiiiiiiiiiiiin
cadence,” Dune and the other soldiers agreed.
They performed
their exercises while they counted off their movements. “One. Two. One! One.
Two. Two! One. Two. Three!”
Dune’s mind
returned to the unfortunate news she heard earlier. An IED took out a convoy of
soldiers from her unit. Whoever detonated the bomb hid it beneath a
simple, cardboard box, about six inches high.
“Relax!” the drill
instructor said once everyone finished.
“Never!” Dune and
her coworkers yelled in union.
* * *
Dune sat at the
edge of the bed in Steven’s office. He sat across from her. His TV player The Wizard of Oz. The Wizard commanded
Dorothy to steal the witch’s broom.
“How did you feel
after that bomb wiped out our convoy?” Stevens asked.
Dune faced the
ceiling. “I just wish that . . . I could trust my eyes to spot that bomb, no
matter how well its maker hides it.”
Stevens treated
her to a strange look. “There is. Another new technology. We surgically
replace your eyes with mechanical versions that better spot potential threats.”
Dune snorted.
“Side effects?”
“Well—” Stevens
shifted a bit in his seat “—these cybernetic eyes work because they dull your
ability to see things that do not
serve as a threat. Also . . . you might see, on occasion, images from your
past, such as people you’ve watched die.”
Dune’s gaze
drifted towards the TV. Dorothy and her freaky friends stumbled through a scary
forest as they foolishly sought the Wicked Witch’s palace.
Better to live with side effects than to go
home in a box. “When can I have the surgery done?” Dune asked.
The
Cowardly Lion said, “I do believe in spooks. I do. I do. I do.”
* * *
Dune, a few weeks
after she installed her new eyes, led her platoon in morning PT.
“Iiiiiiiiin
cadence,” she said.
“Iiiiiiiiin
cadence,” the other soldiers shouted.
They performed
sit-ups. “One. Two. One! One. Two. Two! One. Two. Three!”
Her new eyes never
noticed dangerous distractions, such as beautiful birds or flowers. Her
thickened skin felt numb.
“Relax!” she said,
once everyone finished.
“Never!” her fellow
soldiers yelled in union.
