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The rain over the blue ridge of Virginia did not fall in drops; it descended in heavy, continuous sheets that turned the asphalt of Route 15 into a black mirror.
My right leg, pierced by shrapnel from an improvised explosive device outside of Erbil eighteen months ago, throbbed with a rhythmic, sickening ache that synchronized with the steady slap of the windshield wipers. Every time I had to depress the brake pedal of the Ford Escape, a sharp spike of heat traveled from my ankle up to my hip.
In the passenger seat, eight-year-old Lily had curled her small body into a tight ball, her forehead pressed against the glass. Her breathing was shallow and uneven, the occasional hiccuping sob breaking through the hum of the heater.
“Mommy,” she whispered, not turning her head. “Are we ever going back to our rooms?”
“No, sweetie,” I said, my voice sounding thin and dry, even to my own ears. “We’re going to Grandfather’s house. Remember the big red barn and the apple trees?”
“But Grandfather isn't there,” she said. “He’s with the angels.”