Sick and tired of being put on display like a fucking show pony, with a chest full of medals to compensate for his missing left eye. He shifted in his chair, listening uncomfortably to a list of his accomplishments as a Pararescueman in Afghanistan. Tuning out the announcer’s voice, he looked over the fundraiser’s dinner crowd. All were opulently dressed, fitting the elegant setting of the Oklahoma Governor’s mansion. At least he was home again, or almost home. “…Afghanistan, where he was awarded the Airman’s Medal, Bronze Star, and two Purple Hearts. Ladies and gentlemen, our honoured guest, Senior Airman Scott Carnes.” The emcee, a burly lumberjack of a man shoehorned into an ill-fitting tuxedo, waved Scott to the podium. He stood, experiencing the same wash of vertigo he’d had for the past few days, since he’d been allowed to walk out of San Antonio’s Wilford Hall Medical Centre under his own steam. They said it would go away as his equilibrium adjusted to the loss of sight, but it didn’t make life any easier in the meantime.
