2.

For more than a month he was too weak to do anything except sit in a chair near the window and look at what was happening on the street. He had some mustering-out pay left, and several times a week a home worker from the VA came around and brought him some groceries. Most of them went unused. He couldn’t eat. It wasn’t even that food repelled him. He simply didn’t want it and couldn’t force himself to eat it. He drank a little soup most days. And sometimes a half a slice of toast. The home worker brought him books and magazines but he didn’t have the energy to read. He listened to the radio. He slept part of the day. Nights were difficult. The visiting nurse came once a week. The scars on his stomach and chest were still bright, but there was no infection. He hadn’t smoked since he was wounded. He couldn’t stand to drink coffee. On her third weekly visit the nurse took him for a walk to the corner of his block and back. He walked like an elderly man, his shoulders forward, taking small shuffling steps, shivering. The weather was mild, and he was bundled up, but he was cold. He stopped at the corner, and turned and looked back at the insurmountable distance back down his block.

“You can make it,” the nurse said.

She was a fat young woman with long black hair and an Irish face. Her name was Madeline Murphy.

“It’ll get easier as time goes by,” she said. “Once your blood count gets back up.”

Burke nodded. They began to slowly walk back.

“So, what are your plans?” Madeline said. “After you get back on your feet.”

Burke shook his head.

“You don’t know?” Madeline said. “Or you won’t tell?”

“Don’t know,” Burke said.

“Well, what are you trained for?” Madeline said.

It seemed to Burke that they were no closer to his place than they had been. He glanced over at Madeline and smiled a little.

“Rifleman,” he said.

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