Hank shrugged into the leather jacket Tuck had found in his closet and brought to the hospital in Bethesda, where he and Swede were being treated for their injuries. Swede sat in a sterile, white hospital bed, wearing a faded gown with the ties in the back, while eating the swill from the hospital kitchen. He still had a swath of bandages wrapped around his head where shrapnel had hit, and his hand was wrapped like a mummy’s, making it hard for him to hold his fork. As far as the docs knew, they’d dug all the metal shards out of his back and thighs. He’d find out if the surgeon had done his job the next time he went through the metal detector in a commercial airport. Swede paused with his forkful of rubber chicken halfway to his mouth. “What did they do?” “They’re running me through a medical review board.” Hank walked to the window and stared out. Cloudy skies matched his murky mood. “I might be discharged based on this goddamn leg.”
