Chapter 1 - The Leg Over the EdgeThe concrete of the Interstate 84 overpass was always colder than the rest of town in November.
I could feel it through my jeans.
Not through my right leg, of course.
That leg was carbon fiber, titanium, electronics, and a custom socket that had taken technicians weeks to fit correctly.
But cold had a strange way of reminding me what was missing.
I kept my head down and listened to the familiar rhythm of my prosthetic knee.
Click.
Whir.
Click.
Whir.
Three more blocks.
That was all I needed.
Then I heard footsteps behind me.
Not normal footsteps.
Mocking ones.
Step.
Drag.
Step.
Drag.
“Hey, Robo-Gimp.”
Trent.
I kept walking.
My mother always told me people like him survived on reactions.
Ignore them.
Keep moving.
Make them bored.
The problem was my mother wasn’t there.
Colonel Rebecca Morgan was supposed to be at Fort Calder, nearly three hundred miles north, and I had deliberately not told her how bad things had become.
I was nineteen.
A college student.
I did not want my mother fighting my battles.
“I'm talking to you.”
Trent shoved my shoulder.
My balance disappeared.
I went down.
My backpack hit first.
Then my hands.
Before I could properly reposition myself, Trent crouched beside my prosthetic.
Greg stood nearby with his phone already recording.
“Leave it alone.”
Trent smiled.
“Relax.”
He reached toward the release mechanism.
“Trent.”
Something in my voice must have amused him.
His smile widened.
“Greg, look. He's nervous.”
“Stop.”
Trent released the socket.
The prosthetic separated.
A sudden sense of vulnerability washed over me.
Trent stood holding the leg.
My leg.
My mobility.
My independence.
He put it over his shoulder like a trophy.
Greg laughed behind his phone.
“Give it back.”
Trent walked toward the bridge railing.
My stomach turned.
“Trent.”
He dangled it over the traffic.
Cars rushed beneath us.
“Man, this thing's expensive.”
“Put it down.”
“What?”
“Give it back.”
He leaned farther.
For the first time, even Greg sounded uncomfortable.
“Dude, enough.”
Trent looked at me.
He wanted one thing.
He wanted me to crawl.
So I did.
I hated myself for it.
I pulled myself toward the railing.
“Please.”
Trent smiled.
Then opened his fingers.
The prosthetic disappeared.
A second later came a metallic impact below.
Brakes screamed.
Horns erupted.
Traffic swerved.
I reached the railing and looked down.
A semi had turned sideways across several lanes.
Cars had stopped at bad angles.
My prosthetic lay shattered against the pavement.
No one appeared seriously hurt from where I could see, but emergency traffic was already forming.
Greg whispered:
“Oh God.”
Trent's face turned white.
Then his fear changed.
He looked at me.
The witness.
“You dropped it.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“You tripped.”
He grabbed my jacket.
“The leg came off.”
Greg looked toward the road.
“Trent, let's go.”
Trent pulled me closer.
“You tell them you fell.”
“No.”
His eyes hardened.
“Say it.”
I refused.
The bridge began vibrating.
At first I thought another semi was approaching.
Then the sound deepened.
Diesel engines.
Several.
Greg turned.
“What the hell?”
Four matte-green Humvees came over the hill.
Fast.
Too fast for an ordinary convoy.
The lead vehicle swerved toward the curb and stopped across the roadway.
Three more blocked the bridge behind it.
Heavy doors opened.
Soldiers stepped out.
Then the driver's-side rear door of the lead Humvee opened.
A woman emerged.
Army combat uniform.
Silver eagle insignia.
Colonel.
My mother.
Rebecca Morgan took one look at me on the concrete.
Then at Trent still holding my jacket.
Her face changed.
Not wild anger.
Something colder.
Command.
“Take your hands off my son.”
Trent released me.
“Ma'am, he—”
“Back away.”
He obeyed.
Two soldiers moved toward me.
My mother reached me first.
“Liam.”
"I'm okay."
She looked at where my prosthetic should have been.
Then at the highway below.
“What happened?”
I opened my mouth.
Trent answered.
“He fell.”
My mother looked at him.
“You weren't asked.”
Greg slowly lowered his phone.
Rebecca noticed.
“You recorded this?”
Greg swallowed.
“Some of it.”
“Don't delete anything.”
Trent stepped backward.
“You can't order us around.”
My mother's gaze moved to him.
“No.”
She pointed toward the state police vehicle already climbing the ramp.
“But they can.”
A trooper stopped behind the convoy.
Another arrived moments later.
Then ambulance units.
My mother crouched beside me.
“You told me they were just making comments.”
I looked away.
“They were.”
“When?”
“A month ago.”
Her voice softened.
“And now?”
I looked toward the highway.
“Now my leg's down there.”
She closed her eyes for half a second.
When she opened them again, Colonel Morgan had returned.
She stood.
“Sergeant.”
A soldier approached.
“Ma'am.”
“Preserve every vehicle camera from this convoy.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Trent laughed nervously.
“Why would your trucks have anything?”
My mother turned toward him.
“Because the lead vehicle was facing this bridge before your friend lowered his phone.”
Greg looked at Trent.
Trent looked at the Humvee.
A small black camera sat behind the windshield.
Recording continuously.
His face changed.
My mother saw it.
So did I.
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