The author retains all rights to this original work of fiction.

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Ask the Right Questions, Chapter 1 of 6

--- Six years and 5 days ago ---

June 3rd, 20:23 local time, Patsah Melah, Afghanistan
I had been connected on and off to the SAT-Link laptop since arriving an hour ago at our position on the outskirts of Patsah Melah. Colonel Flagg's delegation was just east of our position over the Afghanistan/Pakistan border and had arrived about three hours ahead of our making it to Patsah Melah.

Flagg wasn't a Colonel; he was CIA, and our chalk team of twelve Rangers was his escort for this OP. No one knew his real name, so Colonel Flagg was what we called him. He didn't seem to mind, and it probably wouldn't have mattered anyway because that's what we were going to call him regardless.

There is no big mystery about what we were doing on the Afghanistan/Pakistan border. Flagg was buying information about some Taliban shithead or some other bullshit like that. One of our Humvees' had three duffle bags with a five-hundred grand split between them, so this wasn't a small-time buy operation. The meeting with the Pakistani delegation was to occur in a jog on the border between the two countries three hours ago. We were a little over two hours late making Patsah Melah, which is typical for an OP this deep in country because nothing ever went as planned.

We would have been on time if one of the Humvees' hadn't taken a dump on us. Sergeant Brady figured out the issue quickly, which was a good thing because the village we'd passed through just before the Humvee went down seemed to take great interest in our passing through. You could feel the tension amongst the team. There was a feeling we might have to ward off some local warlord-chieftain and his band of stooges from that village.

I had eyes on them via the radar-based Lacrosse C299-12BR series satellites. Every thirty-six to forty-three minutes, those things orbited the earth. We had access to other satellites, but if you wanted to know the shoe size of one of these guys, the 12BR was what you wanted to be connected to too. Luckily, the warlord's assets never mustered before we were on our way again. Flagg assured us that with a single call, drones on station for this operation would take out any threats.

We'd worked with Flagg a number of times, and no one seemed overly impressed with him. I talked to him more than the others on the team did, and I found him easy to talk to too. It made me feel good that he recognized I had advanced tech skills and wasn't just a grunt with a weapon. All his 'spook' shit, the stuff he could talk about, was interesting, and some of it skirted the crazy side of being in the CIA and believability.

Our chalk team had been this deep in the country too many times to count, and we always had close-in support. Flagg probably wasn't blowing sunshine up our skirts about being able to call in assets to save our asses; I mean this was a really big information buy. More to the point, though, the pentagon was covering all our asses because of the five hundred G's we were transporting out of their sight. The word on Flagg was that he was the best at whatever spook shit he was doing in the 'stan (Afghanistan).

We just wanted to get this shit done and back to our base.

June 3rd, 20:38 local time, Patsah Melah, Afghanistan
"Captain, I didn't notice this earlier, but we've got a small group forming just west of Writse."

"How many?" Captain Pratt asked, looking over my shoulder.

"Four right now, one vehicle. It looks like two clicks further west, we got another vehicle inbound. There appears to be a few people milling around with that first group, here in the shadows," I said, pointing to a group of trees. "I got some small arms, likely an RPG (Rocket Propelled Grenade launcher), and maybe one Russian machine gun. Sorry, sir, I was so focused on our Pakistani group that I didn't look much outside our perimeter position."

Having to say that out loud was embarrassing, but Pratt wasn't one for excuses or ass covering; he wanted the straight shit, nothing candy-coated.

"What are our friends across the border doing?"

"Haven't moved, sir."

I moved the thermal image capture so he could see the six heat signatures were still gathered around the one truck they'd made their trek to this remote location in. Six potential hostiles weren't much of a concern, but if those forming west of us were a contingent force, that could be problematic being pinched between the two groups.

Pratt turned toward Flagg and asked, "We doing this or what?"

"Waiting for the call," he said, pointing to his satellite phone as if it controlled all our destinies.

"Fuck... Calvin, tell Jenkins and Carey to be alert on our six. Ruiz, they can't make it over these hills; there is no clear path for vehicles," he asked, pointing at the group of mountains and hills south and west of us.

"No, sir, they might be able to cut the corner into Patsah, but there is no clear route to our position." I flipped views on the screen. "Their easiest route to us is through Patsah."

"What's this?" he asked, pointing to a group of thermal signatures on the screen closer than he probably thought they should be to our position.

"That's two shepherds and a flock of 8 goats."

"Too close, are they still there?"

"This is from our last sat pass, sir, thirty," I looked at the time, "Two minutes ago."

"I want to know where they are now."

And I'd like to be anywhere but out here.

"Next SAT pass is in a couple minutes, sir."

June 3rd, 20:46 local time, Patsah Melah, Afghanistan
"Hands! Hands!" I screamed at the kid first in Pashto, then Dari.

He had strolled into our perimeter like some silent mist as I was trying to take a piss next to some small scrub brush. Fuck! I'd snapped my weapon to the ready, dribbled piss on myself, and had broken the silence of the early evening.

My heart was thumping through my chest and was amped up by the sounds of others moving to converge on my position. The kid slowly began to raise his hands, smiling, but in the dim light of the fading sun I could see he was holding something, and it was tethered to something beneath the loose Pashtun clothing he was wearing. FUCK!

The kick of my weapon didn't startle me as much as the other weapons that joined in the volley. I hadn't realized how quickly the team had moved up in support and how that first round began a combined effort to eliminate the threat. Three of us had fired on the lone target, controlling bursts of three rounds each. No one knows how many hit the kid, but likely most. He went down in a heap, thrown back off his feet; he was a crumpled mass less than twenty feet from where I stood.

Someone whispered, "Any other contacts, Ruiz?"

It took me a moment to answer, "No, but there were two shepherds on the hill behind us..." I had crouched between firing on the kid, waiting to engage other targets, maybe expecting a firefight, but none came. "I'm moving in to check him," I said.

"Right behind you," a voice whispered.

Another voice: "Got our six..."

Jennings was moving after me, and Calhoun had our six (the area behind us). As I approached the kid, he was sucking in his last breaths; holes in his chest gurgled loudly as he strained and coughed to take those last breaths. At ten feet, I could see he still had something in his hand still, and as I focused my weapon on him, his arm moved. Instead of unloading my M4A1 into the kid, I turned and...

June 3rd, 20:49 PM Local Time, Patsah Melah, Afghanistan
The explosion blew all of us head over heels, fifteen feet over rock and scrub brush. The blinding flash made it impossible to focus; the concussion sucked my breath away, and every breath that followed was dirt and dust filled. On top of all that, there was searing pain in my right leg. I could feel a thick, wet ooze pooling at my knee. There was stabbing pain down there with every cough and strained gasp for air I made. It felt like my leg felt was on fire.

"Kindred!" Jennings yelled, and I could see him looking down at me. "You're good, Ruiz... Just stay down."

Where did you come from, I wondered? I hadn't moved; it hurt too much, and I knew I was bleeding. I could only half hear Jennings through the ringing in my ears, then I felt pressure at my knee, bucked uncontrollably, and tried to writher away from the pain of his grip—all that while moaning much louder than I should have been if we were under attack. I tried to...

June 3rd, 20:55 PM local time, Patsah Melah, Afghanistan
When I came too, I couldn't see anything but a red glow against the blackness. It took a second to figure out that I had been covered with a couple ponchos, and Kindred was doing something with my leg. I couldn't feel a thing. I reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Hey Ruiz... Let me finish up," he said, turning back to dressing my wound. "You in pain?" he asked.

"Jennings, Calhoun..." I said as if pondering the weather.

"They're fine; they have a couple bruises and scratches. Calhoun might have a broken collar bone. We'll medevac you two."

I didn't need to ask about the kid...

June 8th, 15:18, Landstuhl Regional Medical Center, Ramstein Air Base, Germany
"How's it going, Ruiz?"

I looked up, shocked to see Colonel Flagg standing at the entrance to my room.

"Good sir, what are you doing here?" I asked, surprised to see him and happy to have some company. Never in a million years would I have thought he'd be my one and only visitor in the hospital. I got it though, my chalk team was in the ‘stan still and I was in Germany. They’d have been here giving me shit if they could.

"Just passing through on my way state side, I thought I'd stop by to see how you were doing."

"Oh... Well, I'm supposed to be out of here and shipped back to Fort Benning in a couple days. I hope to be through rehab by the New Year," I said with more confidence than I truly felt.

The doctors were positive about my recovery chances, but the amount of work I would need to do for rehab would be extensive and no easy hump.

"Hey, that is good news; I'm really glad to hear it," Flagg said, a look of relief on his face.

He sounded genuinely happy with my prognosis, which made me even surer that he was a good guy under all that cloak and dagger shit he hid behind. Since he was here and I hadn't talked to anyone about the OP, I decided to ask the five-hundred-thousand-dollar question.

"What happened with the OP?"

"It was a bust. It turns out there was a contract on my head. Their reward was the money if they took me out and the twelve of you Rangers. I think they quickly figured out their plans were fucked and sent the kid in. I should have known it was a bullshit buy," he replied, sounding a little dejected.

"Whoa... I don't remember much of anything after the kid blew himself up," I said absently.

While I might not remember how the OP ultimately ended, I saw the kid clearly almost every night when I tried to sleep.

"Yeah, I'm really sorry you and Calhoun got the worst of that. I heard he is already on his way back to Benning."

"That's what one of the nurses told me, probably there by now. I guess he had to have a couple screws and a plate put in his collar bone, but it should be good in a couple months."

"That's good news. Well, I just wanted to stop by to see how you were doing." He walked to the side of the bed and stuck his hand out.

We shook hands, and afterwards he handed me a business card.

"You need anything after all this; I want you to call me. That's the number; leave a number I can get back to you at, and as soon as I can, I'll call. With your tech skills, you should consider coming to work for us, just saying," he said, smiling. "Really glad you weren't, you know... Get out of here and back in the saddle soon, okay?"

"Yes Sir... I'm anxious to get back to the regiment, that's for damn sure. Thanks for stopping by, Sir," I said, smiling and feeling good about him recognizing my skills could be of value outside the Army.

Without another word, Flagg turned and headed out of the room. I'm pretty sure he felt bad about the OP going to hell. It couldn't have been prevented; it is what it is. This was just a momentary setback for me; I'd be back doing my thing by the New Year.

December 5th, 13:59, Columbus, GA
It always came down to orders in the Army. The Army shrinks had contacted me after the orders were cut, informing me that I was being medically discharged due to my leg injury and slow recovery. My company commander encouraged, interpreted as 'ordered' me, to attend this appointment with a civilian shrink and make the most of whatever help was being offered before my separation date.

I felt betrayed and angry that those in command talked positively about my recovery and said they were going to bat for me. Then they seemed to turn on me and were now supporting my exit. If I had a couple more months, maybe they could see cutting me loose was a mistake and I was still viable and valuable to the Army, my Ranger regiment...

I didn't need mental health counseling; I needed to get back to doing what I did best. What was this counseling shit going to do for me anyway? Make my transition to civilian life a smooth one. Smoother for whom, civilians? Fuck, nine years flushed.

I looked up as the office door opened slowly, and a woman smiled at me and said, "Sergeant Ruiz."

It wasn't a question; I was the only one in the small waiting room. I smiled back and stood.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Welcome, come in and have a seat, please," she replied, gesturing to the chairs in front of her desk in the office that wasn’t much bigger than the waiting room.

"Thank you, ma'am..."

I entered the office and took the left chair of the two. I watched her return to her side of the desk, close one file and move it to a small stack of files near the corner of the desk, then pull another from the top of a smaller pile on the right, open it, sit, and smile...

"So, let me start by saying I'm not here to psychoanalyze why you chose the left chair over the right chair," she paused as I turned to look at the chair to my right—it was a pale yellow and the one I was sitting in was a pale green. Did that mean something—the color of the chair?

I was right-handed; why did I choose the left chair? Was it because selecting this chair allowed her to walk around to her side of the desk easier after closing the door? As a security thing, was I less exposed to the door behind me should it open suddenly? Was this her attempt at humor, an opening chuckle to set me at ease?

She continued before I could fully slip down that rabbit hole any further.

"I'm not here to report anything discussed between us back to the Army, so feel free to rip or praise the Army; anything said in this office stays here unless I deem you to be a danger to yourself or anyone else," she said, moving the file slightly as if to straighten it in front of her. "Are you a danger to your person or anyone else, Casimiro?"

What? Wait, she used my first name and pronounced it correctly, even rolling the 'r'. Did using my first name mean something? I stared blankly at her for a long moment and answered, "No, ma'am, I am not a danger to my person or anyone else."

Fuck! Did I sound confident in my answer? Did I sound convincing? I was angry about being released from the Army; did that make me dangerous? Does someone in my chain of command think I am dangerous?

"You're over thinking my question, Casimiro."

"Ma'am?"

"Do you want me to be comfortable?"

Huh? What am I over thinking? Why does she think that? Am I really making her uncomfortable? I replied tentatively, "Ma'am, I'm not sure I understand..."

Holy fuck! This was nothing like dealing with Army shrinks. At this rate, she was going to have me fucking committed! Breathe... Slow your roll, dummy; this is all just part of the mental games these people play to fuck with you up.

"Let's forgo answers that include the word 'Ma'am'. That will make me feel more comfortable as our session progresses. I'll call you by your name, and you can use anything other than 'Ma'am' to address me. I prefer Doctor Kurt or Cathy or Doc or whatever, but Ma'am makes me feel uncomfortable, and if we're going to accomplish anything over the next hour, we both need to be comfortable with each other," she finished, an earnest look on her face.

"I... I guess so," I replied, not too confidently. What is my issue?!

"Good. The military..."

I interrupted her, "Cazz, would you mind calling me Cazz?"

"Certainly, thank you for letting me know," she smiled and continued, "I wasn't provided much information, Cazz, so you'll need to fill me in on why they think you need to be here. Do you know?"

I wanted to ask her whether she spoke Spanish and delay the grilling that was about to start in earnest, but let her lead. "No, ma'am... I'm sorry," I said, flustered, "No, Doc, I don't. When service members retire or are discharged, there are programs in place to help ease them into civilian life. I assume this is part of that program." That was the truth as I knew it, but why anyone would voluntarily do this kind of thing escaped me.

"Interesting," she said after looking at something in the file. "You've been active duty for just over nine years?"

"Yes."

It took extreme effort to not answer her without including, ma'am. It didn't feel right and made me uncomfortable. Whose comfort trumps in this case—hers or mine? Was not being called Ma'am some anti-pronoun thing like she, her, they, or them?

"Your file says you did tours in Iraq and Afghanistan; what's your MOS?"

MOS? She was familiar enough with the military to be asking about my Military Occupational Specialty, MOS.

"I'm 25 S... Satellite Com's." I added, for clarification, "Communications Systems."

In case she didn't know the jargon, though she used the word 'tours', so she's not blind to military ways or terms. Did this make it easier for her to call 'bullshit' on my answers to questions regarding the Army if I wasn't truthful?

"Do you enjoy that job?"

"Yes."

She didn't ask if I 'did' enjoy my job. Why? She knows I'm getting booted.

"Do you enjoy the military?"

"I guess..."

Fuck! Am I answering these questions correctly? Yes, I enjoy being in the Army, and yes, I don't want to get kicked out! I wanted to add that but held back.

"The military supplied limited information about your injury. What is the nature of your disability?"

Disability?! I'm not fucking disabled, Goddamn it! I tried to breathe slowly, concentrating on my answer rather than blowing my shit all over the office, and I did my best to hide my frustration in my reply, "I don't feel I'm disabled, Doc."

She looked at something in the file and looked up at me.

"Then why are you being medically discharged, Cazz?"

Control your shit... Just answer the question.

"I took a piece of shrapnel during an operation in Afghanistan. It did damage to my right knee. I've been recovering for six months, and I feel that I'm about ninety percent." I took a breath. "I wear a knee brace, but I can go without it."

Did I choose the left chair because of my right knee? That’s ridiculous, that had nothing to do with it. It was random, right?

"You're not here to convince me, Cazz. I'm not involved at all with the military's decision to medically discharge you, nor would any recommendation I make even be considered." She turned a page over, read something, and looked up. "You were awarded your second Purple Heart and the Silver Star?"

Jesus, I didn't want to talk about either and hesitated slightly.

"Yes."

"Afghanistan?"

I nodded.

"What happened?"

If I'm not comfortable talking about it, does that matter? I could spit out a response that is total...

"You're uncomfortable; we can circle back. Did you join the Army right after high school? You're turning twenty-eight in a couple months."

"Yes, after high school, I enlisted."

Another uncomfortable topic I didn't want to share details about with her. Fuck lady! Is this your normal grilling technique?

"What did your parents think about you joining the Army?"

"I guess they were happy; I really never asked them."

There was certainly more to that story, but I wasn't going to volunteer anything she could pick up in greater detail.

"Why not? Do you think they approved?"

Oh, my fucking God! This isn't what I signed up for. I shifted in my chair and shrugged in reply. I casually looked over at the clock on the wall, then back to the doctor—fifty-one more minutes of this shit!

"Cazz, were you born in the States?"

"No Ma'am," I replied and didn't care if that answer made her feel uncomfortable or not. I could feel the frustration really rolling on now, my shoulders tightening, my knee...

She pursed her lips as if thinking, "But you obviously became a citizen and enlisted."

"Yes..."

"Where is your family from?"

"Mazatan, Mexico," and to beat her to the rest of her twenty questions, I added, "That's where I was born. It's a small town outside of Hermosillo. My parents worked on a farm and immigrated to the US to provide a better life for my sister and me. I was five, my sister was three, and my parents were both in their mid-twenties. We moved to Vegas. I don't remember much about it, but we got in line and eventually became citizens. Anything else?"

I'm sure I sounded defensive and like a real asshole, but I didn't care. These questions were frustrating me, and there was no way I was going to get shit out of this time with her. Where is she going with her questioning? I watched her sit back as I continued my deadpan stare.

"Family and societal demands on Hispanic males are often not very fair, would you agree?"

The fuck!? Fair? Is she kidding? The sanctity of one's manhood, to family and on display to the world, is the cornerstone of any 'Hispanic' male being. What's your point, Doc? I shook my head slightly.

"Yes, there are certain expectations."

"Did you join the Army to prove you were a man?"

Mother fuck! I leaned forward in the chair and said, "You don't know me! You don't know my life, my struggles," my voice trailed, and I could feel a lump in my throat. What the hell!

"I don't know Cazz, but I've been doing this for eighteen years and know a few things about how or why people do certain things. You said you enjoyed the Army and your job; I'm not sure you've really thought about it. Maybe I'm wrong or maybe you joined to escape something," she leaned back in her chair.

OK, get a fucking grip... She's fishing for shit to pick apart or put a check mark in a box on a form. She's trying to trip me up, but why? It's time to flip this around! I leaned back in my chair and cleared my throat.

"Doctor Kurt, I'm not comfortable with your questions."

"Why is that Cazz?"

I snapped, "What do you need me to say so that you can rubber stamp me and I can get the fuck out of here?!"

Checkmate bitch! There was no reaction on her face that I could see, even though I had basically flipped her off using the script from her own game of 'I'm not comfortable'. Good! Stop playing with me and wasting my time!

"You are free to leave at any time, Cazz, but I do need to supply an assessment to the Army. I can say you were cooperative and have control over your PTSD, or I can say you were combative, and the findings of the Army psychologists are accurate. Choice is yours," she replied in a controlled and monotone manner.

"But you said the Army hadn't told you much about me," I answered, concern dripping in my tone. What had the Army shrinks said, thought, and shared with her?

"Well, certainly they gave me a general evaluation, but nothing I," she emphasized the possessive. "Can make a judgment on without asking a lot of questions of my own. I'm trying to understand their concerns and how I can help you get past anything they didn't pry out of you," she said while closing the file in front of her.

"What are you evaluating me for?" I asked.

"The big one is the PTSD. They don't want to cut you loose from the Army and have you do something stupid because you were fighting demons from conflicts you've been involved in or depressed about your injury."

"That's ridiculous," I shot back. "I've done everything in my power to get rehabbed and back to active duty. This is bullshit, Doc!"

"Did you try to commit suicide?"

Ah, so that's what this shit is all about! Fuck!

"No. And I explained that to no less than three doctors, the civilian and military police, my platoon sergeant, company commander, and the Army shrinks."

"What happened?"

"I was out with a couple guys from my platoon," I stopped speaking for a second, embarrassed to have to speak this out loud yet again. "I... I had taken a painkiller before joining them at a bar because I’d overdone it that day. I drank a couple beers, one shot of Jack Daniel's, and ended up passing out. I woke up in a civilian hospital, strapped to a bed. Not my finest moment, but I didn't try to off myself, Doc."

"How are you sleeping?"

You don't want to know more about painkillers? How was I combative in the hospital?

"Most nights I sleep just fine."

"And other nights?"

"I just can't fall asleep," I replied, but it was only part of the truth. I could fall asleep easily, but then I would wake up with what the Army shrinks said were 'night terrors'. I would wake from a dead sleep screaming and sweat-soaked. Then it was impossible to fall back asleep.

"Night terrors..."

Fuck! She's holding out on me; she knows way more than she's letting on. That was what the Army shrinks had said; my problem was.

"Yes."

"Tell me about how your knee was injured."

I looked at the clock purposefully. Forty-four minutes... God help me!

"We were on a classified operation deep in the country, and our position was infiltrated by a suicide bomber. I caught a piece of his payload in my knee. There is nothing much else to tell."

"Explains the Purple Heart; why did they feel you deserved the Silver Star?" she asked.

"I didn't. I mean, I don't deserve it," I said softly and hung my head.

"Why do you feel that, Cazz?"

Breathe... I closed my eyes. "When I saw the kid, I knew he was there to take us out." I swallowed hard, "I... I shot him as he was raising his hands and I saw the detonator..." I couldn't go on.

"Did you shooting him cause the bomb to go off?" she asked in a low, soothing voice.

"No, he went down and," I flushed a full breath out slowly through pursed lips. "As we were approaching him lying on the ground, his arm moved, and instead of unloading my magazine into him, I turned to... to run."

"And the bomb went off?"

I could only nod...

"I see, so for removing the threat, you were awarded the Silver Star?"

She sounded confused, and in truth, I have no idea how someone could have mistaken my cowardice for anything looking like bravery. Shame—that's what I felt when I thought about this wrongly awarded medal and every single time my fucking knee ached.

"No, as I turned to run, I ran into two of my teammates who were approaching to cover me and knocked them to the ground... They claimed I had done it on purpose, and the CIA guy running the operation said the same thing. It's pure bullshit and..., " I couldn't speak; my voice had cracked, my head lowered, and as I tried to hold back the emotions of that day, a slow sob began to take over my body.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. "You likely saved your buddies lives, or at the very least severe injury to them, Cazz. You might think it was bullshit, but your brothers know better. You need to let go of any notions you have to the contrary."

Her words pushed me to my breaking point, and I couldn't hold back the sobbing. Fuck me...

"Can I get you some water?"

I did my best to nod and heard her open the office door to access a mini fridge in the waiting room. She returned with a bottle, softly placing it next to my hand. I took it and unscrewed the cap, tilted the bottle back, and gulped down a hard swig. When I looked up, she had a box of tissues extended; that's what I was looking for.

Bitch, don't make me like you! I smiled thinking that; she took it to mean she could continue.

"Are your night terrors because you're reliving that day?"

I nodded, "I see his face nearly every night... He was maybe fifteen. Fucking Taliban..." I hung my head afterwards.

"Tell me about your upbringing, school, and family," she asked.

I was slow to shift gears, but said, "My parents were typical and strict. I did enough to get through each grade in school—no problems, if that means anything. And we didn't see much of my parents' families."

"Were you responsible for your sister?"

Yes, but what does that matter? I noticed she was writing something down on a page within the now-reopened folder.

"My parents worked; my dad had two jobs for as far back as I can remember. I was responsible for my sister when they weren't home. Why do you ask?"

"I'm trying to understand the range of pressures put upon you. This session isn't about breaking you down, Cazz, or trying to expose any flaws. I'm only trying to understand your life, what drives you, how to help you with feelings you have about Afghanistan, and what you really want from this next phase you'll be entering," she replied calmly. She put the pen down and looked at me for a long moment. "Did you have many girlfriends in school?"

Huh? Really? You want to know what makes me tick, what I want in life, and whether I had girlfriends in high school? What good is knowing that? I felt cornered, frustration rolling on again.

"No, there really wasn't anything like that. I didn't have time."

"Because you had to look after your sister?"

I nodded.

"So, there were no relationships in high school. How about after enlisting?"

"No time, Doc. I did basic training, then 25S schooling, and went Ranger," I replied as controlled as I could. Most of that was true, except that it took three years to get accepted into Ranger School.

"Alright, no time," she said, but not as if she was satisfied with my answer. "I see you're taking college courses; what are you studying?" she asked, looking again at the folder.

Was my whole life in there?

"I'm not gay, Doc..." and as soon as I said that, I regretted it. My tone—was it defensive? Why did I say that?! Was there something in my file that...

"I didn't say you were Cazz."

"Well, I'm not; that's all I wanted to say." Fuck! Stop! You're digging the hole deeper. Just shut the hell up and move this on to another topic.

"Being gay is not a mental defect. Whether you want to believe it or not, gender is fluid; who we're attracted to is..."

I interrupted her, "Well, I'm not, and I don't care if someone is. Why is this an issue?"

"It's not; I can assure you, no one cares, Cazz. But if you're repressing trauma and you've got other conflicts weighing you down, it can make dealing with that trauma a heavier burden to bear. That's all I'm saying."

"But you think I am gay. The questions about Hispanic households, not dating... That was your point." I barked louder than intended.

She took a long moment before answering, "I told you already the reason for my questioning. The PTSD and night terrors are not going to just fade away after you're discharged, Cazz. Until you sort out and come to grips with Afghanistan and any other parts of your life that could be points of contention, you're going to be stuck in this same loop. Things could even get worse. I'm not saying they will, but as hardened as you are as a soldier, that thing between your ears can break even the toughest person down. You realize suicides by service members have risen steadily since the Gulf War?"

No, no, no... I don't want to talk about this shit. I looked at the clock. Twenty-eight minutes. I had to move this grilling somewhere else.

"I'm studying journalism."

She looked surprised.

"You enjoy writing?"

I nodded.

"What do you know about those in conflict with their gender, transgendered women or men?" she asked, not taking the change of subject I'd tried to bait her with.

The question caught me off guard, and I'm sure she saw that. I knew enough. Fuck me...

Over the course of the remaining thirty-six minutes I shared, for the first time with someone outside my immediate family, details about Cassidy. That I was sure that’s who I was…

--- Present day ---

Friday, June 8th, 5:36 a.m., Phoenix, Arizona
I had been trying to quell my anxiety by doing breathing exercises. The exercises really weren't doing much to calm my panicked state, but I kept at it. Concentrate, breathe...

I pulled a pillow over my head and decided to start over again.

I found the key was to exhale deeply first, then take in a slow, deep breath. I exhaled slowly and fully, and then took a deep breath. Repeat, don't think, just let go and focus on a point in the distance, a place of calm. After my third set of these breaths, I stopped, giving in to the fact that this technique wasn't of any use right now.

It's hard to stare at a point in the distance when you've got a pillow over your face! I should have left last night after we'd... I smiled into the pillow .

I could see light around the fringes of the pillow and froze. The master suite bathroom door had just opened, filling the room with light, and then quickly got dark again as the door was pulled almost shut. I peeked from under the pillow and saw Lena entering her walk-in closet across the room, returning afterwards to the bathroom with a plain white silk blouse. She looked to be wearing business suit pants and a laced white bra that perfectly cradled breasts that were still perky and full for a woman in her mid-forties.

She noticed me peeking and came over to the bed, sliding the pillow aside and placing a tiny kiss on my lips.

"Good morning," she said with a husky voice and a smile.

"Good morning," I replied, smiling and leaning forward to grab a second peck on the lips.

"Did I wake you?"

"No, I'm usually up around this time. I should probably get going," I said softly.

She leaned in and kissed me again, slipping a hand under the covers to run it lovingly over my chest, stopped, and looked deep in my eyes.

"I'm really glad you stayed."

I smiled up at her. She was so genuine, I could feel the truth in her voice and in the way her fingers felt electric against my skin on my chest.

"I'm glad I did too."

Which was true, but of course I couldn't just focus on the positive; I needed to give equal time to the negative, which started my panicked state and failed breathing exercises. I'm sure I looked like something drugged in by her cat right now, and let's not even comment on my breath. Why did I insist on focusing on the negative? I was way too skilled at self-sabotage for my own good. I hated when I couldn't just ride the wave of good in my life.

"So, I'm about out of here," she continued. "Feel free to hang out, shower, borrow whatever you need, eat, whatever... Just lock up before you go, okay?"

This was the second time I'd spent the night since meeting Lena. We met at the animal shelter I volunteered at last month by accident. She had come in to donate cat litter and food after we'd made a plea for help on a local talk radio show. I felt an unexplainable connection with her, like nothing I had ever experienced before.

Love at first sight? Was that even possible?

The only interaction we had was accepting her donation, unloading it from her car, and thanking her. She smiled, looked into my soul somehow, and asked if I'd like to get coffee sometime. It was mind-blowing to be hit on, but fulfilling in a crazy, random way. My emotional state had been all over the place as we got to know each other these past however many weeks.

We started out slow: a couple dates for coffee after work, a few dinners, a few kisses after those dates, and then I spent the night last week and again last night. The first time we were together was awkward, at least for me, but she was patient, slow, sensual, and certainly wanting. Try as I might, I couldn't help but be embarrassed that I wasn't fully myself. She, of course, knew my story and my vulnerabilities, and she didn't care. She did not care!

She said the attraction for her was the person I was—she saw and accepted the true me.

And yet, the negative side of that coin I couldn't let lie undisturbed. Like when we began to get intimate for the first time, it was over before it really began. To say I was embarrassed beyond words would be a complete understatement. She said she understood, and the rest of that night we held each other as we slept—she slept. I worried about staying, falling asleep, and waking up screaming due to night terrors.

On Saturday morning, we explored each other a little slower, with purpose and with some reserve. The result? I still couldn't make it past a couple minutes of touching before popping.

While she was being a good sport about it, the second premature climax embarrassment loaded up the dysphoria dump truck. It made it difficult to be there with her in the present, as all I could focus on was my failures, faults, and inadequacies. I spent a lot of time beating myself up over not being a good lover last week. I laid low all week, though all I wanted to do was see her, talk to her, and most importantly, make it up to her.

Last night, though, everything about being with her was mesmerizing. She led, and I followed. When she sensed I was 'over stimulated', she slowed everything down by having me focus on pleasing her with my tongue, hands, and eventually... Was the 'third time' the charm? It was, and her climaxes were such a boost to my fragile psyche.

Everything about being here was surreal. This relationship—I think it's a relationship, right? Fuck it—this is a relationship and it’s crazy scary! It had been nearly six months since I'd put myself out there after the last abusive relationship I had gotten sucked into. This relationship was new, different, and consumed so much of my brain's idle moments that I could barely think straight at times. I didn't want to screw anything up or scare her away. She let me be me, accepted I was evolving, and the sexual connection was beyond anything I could have ever imagined.

While last night was a success, my anxiety and dysphoria alarms were screaming in my... STOP!!! I tried to smile and try to move my mind back to the here, the good, and the now.

"Okay..." I offered after a way longer than necessary pause—did she think something was wrong? "Did Marisa come home last night?" I asked as casually as I could muster, because I needed to know.

Marisa was Lena's daughter. She was nineteen and in her second year at ASU, studying to be a doctor. Her daughter's successes were a direct result of Lena raising her to be a strong and independent woman. I had met Marisa a couple times, and she had her act together, something I was still trying to get right in my own life.

Yeah, that feels about right; let the negative slide right back in you, idiot!

"No, but she texted. She'll be home tonight, so she says," she said, smiling and then rolling her eyes.

I caught the eye roll, and one immediate stress point was removed from play. I was relieved that I wouldn’t be left here alone after Lena left and potentially have to be on my game with her daughter should our paths cross in this big empty house. That was a huge relief!

I watched Lena return to the bathroom and watched her put on her blouse, flipping her hair up to get the collar to sit right. Then she buttoned it up and tucked it into her slacks. She held the vanity with one hand for balance and pulled on a pair of pumps. She looked at herself from each side, pulled a stray hair that had settled on her sleeve, turned around to get the view from behind.

"You're staring."

She was looking out the bathroom at me with a hint of smirk. She was beautiful, stunningly confident, soft-spoken, caring...

"You're beautiful; you know that," I stated it as if my mouth had a mind of its own. I felt flushed and embarrassed. Should I have said that?!

She watched me, smiled, and returned to the bed, leaning in to kiss me lightly and sensually. "Will I see you tonight Ms. Ruiz?"

"I would like that..."

"I would too, Cass," she said, smiling and kissing me quickly one last time before making her way to the bedroom's door. She looked back at me and said, "I'll call you later. I'm in court at one o'clock. It should be fairly quick, discovery stuff."

I nodded, and she walked out of the room. Ten minutes later, I could hear the garage door opening, her car starting, and the garage door closing. The house was eerily quiet, and I felt very alone.

Enough day dreaming; I needed to get my ass moving... Why couldn't this be Saturday and we could spend the morning and day together?

Friday, June 8th, 8:21 a.m., Phoenix, Arizona
"Jake, that piece on the President is trending." Kim paused to look at something in the pile of papers in front of her: "The pictures Kevin took at the border detention center are getting noticed, with over a hundred thousand views and a good percentage of secondary cross-platform shares. The story is getting a boost in traffic from our international affiliates. Dumb luck, the president's son's security detail was able to assist in that drug bust in Tucson. Good work, you two."

There were a few murmurs around the room, congratulating Jake and Kevin. It was short-lived because Kim wasted no time switching gears and quieting the room—leaving her twenty-minute cheerleader spiel with the web news team—for the diarrhea of metrics regarding site hits, advertising redirects, social media posts, and search engine rankings. When she began this portion of the morning staff meeting, it was officially my turn to check out.

Sure, this stuff was the new scorecard for journalists who wrote stories and were lucky enough to have their stories posted on our site. I get that, but everything I had been assigned the past year was pure fluff—'human interest' stories. Nothing I'd written amounted to even a single percent of site traffic on any given day. Seriously, I'd love to meet anyone who reads my drivel about the best dog parks in the city or compares of non-franchised coffee stands to one another for the best cup of coffee in the Phoenix area.

It was tiring, depressing, and writing this kind of bullshit for the past year was really beginning to grate on me.

I should probably care more about the metrics, but I had a list of mind-crushingly boring fluff pieces yet to get my head around and submit. Two stories were nearly complete, and the one I had turned over to James, an Associate Lifestyle Editor, required a rewrite of the ending to be more of a 'summary' than an opinion-leaning piece on the evils of grocery store self-checkout kiosks.

Whatever, just kill me now...

Friday, June 8th, 9:19 a.m., Phoenix, Arizona
"Got a minute?"

The question caught me off guard because, since I had been with The Phoenix Post Intelligencer, Mike Beatty, managing editor, had spoken less than a hundred words to me. Generally, it was 'Good morning, Cassidy...' and nothing more. Sure, I worked directly for James, who reported to Lifestyle Editor Allen, who reported to Resident Editor Kim, who reported to Mike, so it was logical I would only have sparse interaction with him. Only Candice, the Editor-in-Chief, was above Mike in the food chain, so his wanting a 'minute' with me meant something was probably wrong.

Sure, my attitude could use an adjustment, but I didn't think it was that bad, not like 'lose your job bad'. I would be happy to eat whatever shit sandwich he was about to put on my plate if I wasn't about to get an ass chewing or, worse, fired.

"Sure..." I replied after the initial spike in my anxiety levels jumped, and I could feel the blood rushing from my head as I stood. I stood, assuming he wasn't going to have an unpleasant conversation with me at my desk in the middle of the newsroom.

"Excellent," he said, turning and heading towards the hallway where all the conference rooms were located.

I followed him, unable to get the thought that this impromptu meeting was going to be an ass chewing. If they were going to let me go, could I pick up work from one of the other local news outlets? Could I freelance from here? Augh... Don't put the cart before the horse. Journalism might have been the wrong career choice after the Army.

We walked in silence toward the conference rooms because I couldn't think of anything worthy or constructive to say. As we approached the 'Mesa' conference room, I could see there were others already seated—the news editor, Carol Black, and a couple reporters. The absence of anyone from HR put me a little more at ease, but being included in this group of power players replaced my 'getting chewed out' anxiety with a mix of curiosity, a little dread, and your basic nervous jitters.

So, what's going on? I took a seat next to Kevin, one of the senior reporters on staff. He smiled at me and said, "Hey Cass."

"Hey..." I replied, trying to smile back.

"Okay, I think we've got all the right players now," Mike began, taking his seat. "Let's talk about the Estrada story."

"Valerie is handling that," Carol said. As Valerie raised her hand, everyone turned to look at her.

"Alright... I'd like to discuss tightening this story up," he stated, looking around the table. "Valerie, did you touch base with Lynn on the Solis and Morena assaults?"

"Lynn's out on maternity leave," Carol chimed in before Valerie could answer. Carol looked annoyed, but she had that look most days.

"I understand that, but with the Estrada assault that makes this the third Trans woman in just over two weeks' time...," he said as he looked around the table. "Anyone besides me think that's a bit unusual?"

I certainly didn't, but I wasn't going to speak unless I spoke too.

"I reviewed Lynn's stories, her notes, contacts, and police interactions," Valerie stated sheepishly.

Mike looked like he was digesting Valerie's statement; maybe that Lynn was on maternity leave, then spoke, "Everyone knows Cassidy Ruiz? She's been with us a little over a year now."

There were nods all around the table, which made me feel oddly spotlighted, given the story Mike wasn't happy with. I was shocked that he knew how long I had been with the post—not so much that he knew I was a Trans woman. Guess we know why I was included in this power group.

I was about to form his next statement in my head when he laid it out there for everyone.

"Anyone talk with her about these assaults?"

Nailed it... My stomach fluttered nervously, and my mind ran through relaxation exercises to control my immediate desire to hyperventilate. No one ventured an answer to his question or even looked at me. Okay, pure awkwardness. Did he really expect someone was going to say something about me being Trans? Fuck no...

"Carol, get with Allen; see if he can free up Cassidy for this story. Valerie, you'll continue as the lead on this, but you'll work with Cassidy. Carol, we are good here," he asked.

She nodded, but wasn’t done, "Valerie's piece on Ms. Estrada was well done, Mike..."

To me she sounded defensive. Of course, she would say something like that because, in truth, she reviewed and authorized Valerie’s story being released.

"The story is getting less traction than I would expect," he said as he looked around the room and appeared to be measuring his next statement: "I want new angles, insights, and perspectives, and I want to know why the Phoenix Times has a profile on who they think is doing this and more substantial details about what is going on than our story. I would hate to think we've glossed over this story."

"I understand the ask, but we're not glossing over anything," Carol shot back.

Now she looked really pissed, and her tone, in my opinion, was a mistake. If I were her, I would have taken the critique and run with fixing what Mike didn't like.

Mike looked down to his notes and asked, "Did Lynn's or Valerie’s story include that a description of the vehicle and a partial plate number were caught by a witness?"

Valerie shook her head. 'No', Carol sat in silence, fuming.

"Did we report there is traffic camera video of a person driving that vehicle four blocks from where Ms. Morena was dumped? That the person appeared to be trying to avoid being seen by said camera at that intersection... The police have a full plate number now, and it was tracked to a stolen Kia. These are details; these are facts," he concluded, raising his voice.

"Those details weren't available at the time we posted, Mike," Carol said, coming to Lynn and Valerie's defense, not willing to back down.

He didn’t give her a chance to continue, "No mention of the type of assault, sexual or otherwise, by the police—why don't we know more about that? I read on the Times site that Solis claims to have been videoed, and we don't mention that," he stated, looking around the silenced room. "There's more going on here than has been released by the police, and the Times is reporting it; we're not."

"None of the victims could be reached, Mike," Carol interrupted, adding, "They are here illegally and have disappeared after being released from the hospital."

Mike looked annoyed that his train of thought was interrupted.

"This has been the deadliest year on record so far for the Trans community is concerned; there is no mention of that in our story. I find it a little disturbing that I can get that fact from the Times in the first paragraph, but nowhere in any of our stories on these assaults. We have the ability to update our stories at any given time," he said, pushing back from the conference table. "I want missing details from our stories updated, I want this dug into, and I want the site traffic for these assaults to double by the end of the weekend. Are we good here?"

He looked around the room and settled his attention back on Carol.

"We're on it..." Carol conceded. "Valerie, Cassidy, stay seated. Everyone else, we'll ping you if needed."

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