She’d asked if it would be okay to come with his family to spring him out of Walter Reed. Of course he’d said yes.Bub sat in the back seat, prattling away. But it was a good prattle. School had been in session for a few weeks and he liked his teacher and they were studying photosynthesis and he’d written his first short story.By the time they were off the Beltway and headed north, Bub had grown tired, and soon his prattling stopped and his head rested against the window.“Does your shoulder hurt?” Mom asked Zane, shifting in her seat as Dad turned onto the highway, heading west.“Not much,” Zane answered, moving his arm. The physical therapist was pleased with the progress he’d made and had released him, saying he’d be fine to drive to Texas. “You’re good to do anything,” the woman said. “Well, maybe not dig a ditch yet or lift a hundred pounds, but you’re fine to shoot a gun.”He hadn’t reacted. He might have to qualify another time on the shooting range, but he’d never have to shoot at another person.
