guard behind him and finally found the source of the voice.
A tall, dark-haired man in BDUs, who was holding the door open for the MP.
“It’s fine,” Lucky managed, and the man nodded and turned his attention to the MP, saying, “I’ve got this. Really. You can’t be in here. Check with your CO—he’ll tell you the same thing.”
The MP finally conceded and the man who would be his psychiatrist from here on out closed the door and looked at him. “Better not to be guarded, right?”
“Much.”
Since he’d been here, in this hospital, he’d spent most of his time locked in a private room on the psych floor. Before that, it was the brig for several days, until his tests came back and Dr. Larkin mentioned the possibility of some damage to his brain that could explain the memory loss.
Now that there was physical proof, he’d been released here. Granted, it was still a jail where they’d continue to assess him, see if he really had amnesia. Once they believed he wasn’t a flight risk, he might be released but would still be required to attend these sessions and do everything he could in order to gain his memory back.
“I’m Dr. Randall Cooper. You can call me Cooper or Coop. Or Doc. Sometimes I’m sure you’ll call me an asshole and it will hurt my feelings. But I’ll live.” His eyes were dark and like most of the other doctors around here, he was friendly. But he also seemed capable, in the way Rex, Nate and Uncle were.
In the way Dash had been.
It had been three weeks and Lucky hadn’t seen any of them. To be fair, he hadn’t asked but figured that the Navy was keeping him isolated for a reason.
He felt constantly watched.
Because you are.
Cooper was the one watching him now. “Josh, do you know why you’re here?”
Here we go. No reason to hold back. “I don’t know who the fuck Josh is. I’ve got amnesia but the Navy isn’t convinced—everyone I’ve met isn’t sure if I’m lying about that.”
“Are you lying?”
“Look, I don’t remember anything until four years ago when I swam to shore on a beach in South Africa. That’s where my life begins. I’m not Josh—I’m Lucky.”
“I can call you Lucky, if that helps.”
“It helps because that’s who I am.”
Cooper nodded. Jotted something down.
“This is fucking crazy,” Lucky muttered.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone you didn’t have a memory when you first got to South Africa?”
He shrugged.
“Your first instinct was to lie.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Cooper sat back. “I think you do. Was a part of you thinking like an operator? Worried that people were after you? Were you doing it for self-protection?”
He probably had been.
“Holding it together in the face of that kind of memory loss, convincing people that you were okay, dealing with that takes a special kind of training. Did that ever occur to you?”
“At points, yes.”
Cooper made a note in the file. “What else occurred to you?”
“Whenever anything did, I shoved it to the back of my mind,” he admitted.
“Give me an example.”
“I’m pretty strong.”
“So are a lot of people.”
“It’s different for me. Once I realized it, I didn’t get into fights. Didn’t want to hurt anyone. But I kept wondering, if I was so strong, how did I get so hurt?”
“And how did you justify that? Maybe you weren’t all that hurt,” Cooper said, sounding slightly disinterested. Or maybe it was because he was writing instead of looking at Lucky and that pissed him off, more than he’d been since he arrived.
He’d been calm and stoic, because he’d known that was the way to stay out of trouble. But he was tired—of being prodded and poked physically, and now, they were going to fuck with his mind and tell him that he hadn’t been hurt?
He stood and started to strip—shirt first, then he was undoing his hospital-issue scrubs and pulling them down and off. Cooper looked like he was about to tell him to stop,
A tall, dark-haired man in BDUs, who was holding the door open for the MP.
“It’s fine,” Lucky managed, and the man nodded and turned his attention to the MP, saying, “I’ve got this. Really. You can’t be in here. Check with your CO—he’ll tell you the same thing.”
The MP finally conceded and the man who would be his psychiatrist from here on out closed the door and looked at him. “Better not to be guarded, right?”
“Much.”
Since he’d been here, in this hospital, he’d spent most of his time locked in a private room on the psych floor. Before that, it was the brig for several days, until his tests came back and Dr. Larkin mentioned the possibility of some damage to his brain that could explain the memory loss.
Now that there was physical proof, he’d been released here. Granted, it was still a jail where they’d continue to assess him, see if he really had amnesia. Once they believed he wasn’t a flight risk, he might be released but would still be required to attend these sessions and do everything he could in order to gain his memory back.
“I’m Dr. Randall Cooper. You can call me Cooper or Coop. Or Doc. Sometimes I’m sure you’ll call me an asshole and it will hurt my feelings. But I’ll live.” His eyes were dark and like most of the other doctors around here, he was friendly. But he also seemed capable, in the way Rex, Nate and Uncle were.
In the way Dash had been.
It had been three weeks and Lucky hadn’t seen any of them. To be fair, he hadn’t asked but figured that the Navy was keeping him isolated for a reason.
He felt constantly watched.
Because you are.
Cooper was the one watching him now. “Josh, do you know why you’re here?”
Here we go. No reason to hold back. “I don’t know who the fuck Josh is. I’ve got amnesia but the Navy isn’t convinced—everyone I’ve met isn’t sure if I’m lying about that.”
“Are you lying?”
“Look, I don’t remember anything until four years ago when I swam to shore on a beach in South Africa. That’s where my life begins. I’m not Josh—I’m Lucky.”
“I can call you Lucky, if that helps.”
“It helps because that’s who I am.”
Cooper nodded. Jotted something down.
“This is fucking crazy,” Lucky muttered.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone you didn’t have a memory when you first got to South Africa?”
He shrugged.
“Your first instinct was to lie.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Cooper sat back. “I think you do. Was a part of you thinking like an operator? Worried that people were after you? Were you doing it for self-protection?”
He probably had been.
“Holding it together in the face of that kind of memory loss, convincing people that you were okay, dealing with that takes a special kind of training. Did that ever occur to you?”
“At points, yes.”
Cooper made a note in the file. “What else occurred to you?”
“Whenever anything did, I shoved it to the back of my mind,” he admitted.
“Give me an example.”
“I’m pretty strong.”
“So are a lot of people.”
“It’s different for me. Once I realized it, I didn’t get into fights. Didn’t want to hurt anyone. But I kept wondering, if I was so strong, how did I get so hurt?”
“And how did you justify that? Maybe you weren’t all that hurt,” Cooper said, sounding slightly disinterested. Or maybe it was because he was writing instead of looking at Lucky and that pissed him off, more than he’d been since he arrived.
He’d been calm and stoic, because he’d known that was the way to stay out of trouble. But he was tired—of being prodded and poked physically, and now, they were going to fuck with his mind and tell him that he hadn’t been hurt?
He stood and started to strip—shirt first, then he was undoing his hospital-issue scrubs and pulling them down and off. Cooper looked like he was about to tell him to stop,
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