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closer than usual and after a couple of seconds, I wondered why my back felt so numb and why Billy's face looked so horrified as I collapsed back into the hole on top of him.
    “One sniper fire wounded. Down in camp foxhole #2. Need Medevac! NOW!” Billy barked into the walkie-talkie.
    Floating in and out of consciousness, I lost track of all time until two medics were crawling down next to me, gripping a gurney and carefully hoisting me onto it. Inch by inch they pulled me up towards the grass as the wop-wop-wop-wop of the Medevac, beating against the night air, slowed until I was secured, then picked up tempo and ferried me away.

    The VA hospital was sure as hell not the Ritz, but not the snake pit I had been forewarned about, either. I spent my days in bed reading magazines, Lily's letters, and sometimes a note or two from Billy R. I wouldn't let my wife and family see me until I could fully walk again, but Billy R. was allowed and one day, when he had entered with his Montagnard crossbow and arrows as a gift, I gently fingered the feathers, promising to guard this treasure with my life, and gave him my solemn promise to move on.
    He was also there the day the doctors finally discussed my condition—a wheelchair was to be my new method of transportation. And it wasn't until much later, in the dark, cocooned by bed railings and rage, that I noticed Billy's gifts had disappeared. I guess he figured out before I did, that they shouldn't be around me right then.
    Six months later, when the VA bus jostled me over to our new West Village apartment building, Lily was waiting with open arms. She and our entombed baby waddled across the street to me, waiting patiently for the driver to unload everything, and just looking up at her breast-filled tie-dyed blouse, bell-bottoms jeans stretched tight over her belly, and her long wavy hair, I thought I was in Heaven. She tenderly arched over me in my wheelchair and we hugged until the tears flowed and our bodies shook, but when she stepped back, I saw her face mirroring my thoughts. How the hell were we going to survive this?

Chapter 3: New Faces
    Sonia was usually at least twenty minutes early, but that afternoon she severed her record.
    “I'm so, so sorry!” she gushed to her waiting Psych study group. “I don't really have an excuse, I mean, I could make up one, but the truth is, I got tied up with Mike.” She plopped down and extracted some papers from her backpack, carefully lining up a pencil, a pen, and a pad in front of her. Everyone else sat still, mesmerized by her performance.
    “Sonia, remember how Bill said he was dropping out?” Mark was the group leader.
    She nodded, pencil poised for work.
    “Well, we have his replacement.” He pointed across the table. “Sonia, this is Harry. Harry, Sonia. Later, be sure to exchange phone numbers.”
    She saw a clear-eyed, tousled-haired student, his corduroy jacket slightly worn, his clean blue shirt, frayed at the collar. He jiggled a quick wave and stared into her eyes longer than expected, causing her to look away. The session had been underway a good five minutes before she ventured another glance towards him.
    Pamela cleared her throat. “Okay, guys. We're down to the wire. Professor Seidell is going to pull out all the stops next Wednesday, so let's do it!” They nodded in unison.
    She continued, “Now, besides his study handout, let's review the basic Obsessive Compulsive Disorder Symptoms sheet.”
    Ana, sitting next to her started reading out loud.
    “Basic symptoms of OCD. 1. Hand washing, repetition patterns, touching objects, counting. 2. Germ/ dirt contamination phobias. 3. Imagined hurt done to oneself by others. 4. Fear of losing control. 5. Aggressive urges/sexual urges. 6. Need to have items around you in perfect order. 7. Need to tell/confess/ask. Any questions?” she added.
    Sonia tapped twice. “Ah, what about that last one? I didn't quite get it.”
    Mark chuckled. “It's what you did when you