"Private Duffy," he said, gesturing for Matt to sit in a chair in front of his desk. He grabbed a file and clicked his ballpoint pen into the ready position, as swiftly as if he were taking the safety off his gun. The friendly, proud-to-meet-you tone of their last meeting was gone.

"Before we begin..." he said, "let me tell you that the army takes this kind of accusation very seriously. And that we do our level best to get to the bottom of it."

Matt swallowed.

"Let me also explain that you will be held accountable for the facts not as they are in hindsight but as they appeared to you at the time."

Matt nodded as if he understood. The words sounded ominous, promising, and bureaucratic all at once. The facts in hindsight? Brody opened the file and began reading. "We understand that you and Private Justin Kane were in pursuit of a driver who had demonstrated hostile intent," he said, not looking up. "And that you were in advance of your squad without an officer present, due to the emergent nature of the threat and a shortage of officers in your sector at the time."

Matt rubbed his forehead with his hand. He tried to remember. Where was Sergeant McNally that day? Had he been at the checkpoint with them? And what did Brody mean, that there was a shortage of officers?

"We also understand," Brody went on, "that you and Private Kane pursued the insurgents through the area near the al-Hikma Mosque until they arrived at an alley. At which point you gave chase on foot. The enemy opened fire, and you and Private Kane set up a position in a building across the street from the sniper."

Matt tried to keep up with Brody's rapid-fire recitation while at the same time trying to square what Brody was saying with what he remembered. He still had no recollection of the building they went into.

"Private Kane neutralized the target, at which point the two of you exited the building to return to your vehicle and make radio contact with your squad," he said. "Then an RPG was fired in the proximity of your position, immobilizing you in the alley." He looked at Matt briefly, as if to make sure that Matt understood that he was the "you" he was talking about. "Renewed fighting erupted and Private Kane, with no regard for his own safety, ran through intermittent fire to rescue you..."

Intermittent fire. Justin hadn't mentioned any shooting after the RPG went off. Justin had made it sound like the fighting was over once he took out the sniper, that the RPG was a single, parting shot as the insurgents took off. Justin had run through gunfire to save him. Matt was stunned.

"...during the course of the engagement that day." Brody had come to the end of a sentence that sounded important, Matt realized, and he tried to focus. "There were, unfortunately, civilian casualties: an elderly man and the youth, Ayyad Mahmud Aladdin Kimadi."

Brody paused for a split-second, flipped to a page in the back of the file, then peered at Matt.

"I understand that you've been experiencing some memory problems." It was a statement but also a question.

"Yes, sir," Matt said.

"Some difficulties with recognizing dates and times? Some anterograde amnesia?"

"Yes, sir," he said. "I think so. Sir." He thought it was anterograde, not the other one, but he didn't dare check his notebook, not after what Meaghan had said.

"And so your recollection of the chain of events would not be considered reliable." Brody's tone made it clear that this was not a question.

Matt held his breath. He had memorized each thing that had occurred that day in the alley as best as he could determine it, using the numbered list in his notebook the same way he'd memorized the World Series trivia. He'd crammed all morning and he was ready, he hoped, to answer Brody's questions.

Brody sighed. "It's unfortunate," he said. "But this is what happens when insurgents put their own people in harm's way."

Matt nodded. Mentally, he reviewed the wording of the Rules of Engagement. Do not fire into civilian-populated areas or buildings unless the enemy is using them for military purposes or if necessary for your self-defense. Do not fire into civilian-populated areas or buildings unless the enemy is using them for military purposes or if necessary for your self-defense.

He also repeated to himself what Sergeant Benson had told them as they were about to enter Iraq. He'd made them all pause at the border and turn off their engines for a little pep talk. "You are going to get shot at," he'd said. "It's going to come down to him or you. Better him than you."

Brody closed the file and stood up. "Let me tell you about an incident that happened the other day near the Jamila Market," he said.

What was going on? Was Brody trying to confuse him?

"A driver comes to our southern checkpoint, asks permission to park in one of the busiest areas in the market," he said. "He has three kids in the backseat. Little ones. Says he has to carry something from one of the stalls to his car and he doesn't want to leave the kids alone in the parking lot."

Matt squinted, trying to follow what Brody was saying.

"Our guys waved him in, helped him park. He walks away. Couple minutes later, the car blows up. With the kids still in the back."

Matt winced. He should have realized where the story was heading, but it didn't matter. He was shocked every time he heard a story like that.

"These people," Brody said. "They just don't value life here the way we do." He shook his head and went on. "Private Duffy, you know what collateral damage is, don't you?"

Matt nodded. It was an army term for all the nonmilitary things that get destroyed by war-roads, factory buildings, sewage plants. Even livestock. It was also a euphemism the army used when one of its bombs ended up killing civilians.

"Well, that's what we have here. A cla.s.sic case of collateral damage."

Matt mentally went over what he would say. He would explain about how he was pinned down. How, somehow, he was alone in the alley.

Brody cleared his throat. "We could spend a year trying to figure out what happened here. And it wouldn't matter. Because it's the insurgents who endanger civilians. By operating in their midst."

Matt just looked at him.

"We can't go back to the Hikma sector to collect ballistics; it's become too unstable in the past few days," he said. "The witnesses, if there were any, have probably already been coached-or bribed or threatened. And the body won't tell us anything: You look the same if you get killed by an enemy bullet or an American bullet."

Matt cringed. He pictured the body bag he'd seen the other day and wondered, for the one hundredth time, what Ali's body might have looked like.

Sometime during this speech, Brody had gone to sit down behind his desk. He tapped the on b.u.t.ton on his computer and it whirred to life.

He stared at the screen for a moment or two, then looked up at Matt. "That will be all, Private," he said. "Time to get back to the business we came here for."

And, Matt realized sluggishly, that he was supposed to stand, salute, and leave.

But it wasn't until he had left, until he'd traveled down the hall a few steps, that it sunk in that Brody had told told him what had happened. Brody hadn't asked him a single question. him what had happened. Brody hadn't asked him a single question.

MATT WANDERED A LITTLE FARTHER DOWN THE HALL, THEN stopped at a spot where several hallways met. He took in the labyrinth of halls, utterly lost. stopped at a spot where several hallways met. He took in the labyrinth of halls, utterly lost.

A few yards down the hallway to his left, he saw a men's room. He walked slowly toward it, stepped inside, and considered what to do next. He closed the seat on one of the toilets, sat down, and leaned his head back against the cool marble wall.

His eyes closed, he tried to understand what had just happened. What had Brody said about Matt's memory? That his recollection of the chain of events "would not be considered reliable"? Is that why he hadn't asked Matt any questions? So where did he get all the other information? From Justin?

Brody had called Ali an enemy sympathizer. But that's what they always said when a civilian got killed.

He'd also said there was a shortage of officers that day. Cla.s.sic cover-your-a.s.s language intended to keep any blame off the higher-ups.

But Brody hadn't actually blamed anyone. What had he said? Something like, "That's what happens when insurgents put civilians in harm's way."

And the last thing he'd said was something about getting back to business. Did that mean Matt was cleared? That he was being sent back to his squad?

Matt got up, walked to the sink, and splashed cold water on his face. He knew he should be relieved. But his head ached and he had a hollow, uneasy feeling in his gut.

He regarded himself in the mirror. His complexion was gray, his eyes hooded. The cold, impa.s.sive face that stared out at him looked like a mug shot.

Matt turned around, took a step, then flung open a stall door and retched.

WHEN M MATT GOT BACK TO THE WARD, THERE WAS A NEW GUY in Francis's bed. He was a small, wiry guy with ginger-colored hair and a pale complexion. in Francis's bed. He was a small, wiry guy with ginger-colored hair and a pale complexion.

"Hey," he called out as Matt walked past. "Want to see something cool?"

Matt stopped, more out of politeness than interest, and the guy picked up a plastic Dixie cup and shook it. Something rattled around inside, something hard. As Matt leaned in, he saw that it was a piece of shrapnel, roughly the size and shape of a lima bean.

"This was inside me," the guy said, lifting his shirt to show a bandage on his belly. "Cool, huh?"

"Yeah," Matt said, barely looking. He couldn't stand this guy. Not because he was being such a little girl about his injury. Because he was in Francis's bed. "Real cool."

THAT NIGHT, AFTER HIS MIND HAD FINALLY WOUND DOWN and he'd drifted into a fitful sleep, Matt woke abruptly. He sat up, trying to figure out what had roused him from his sleep. The ward was absolutely silent. And, that, he realized, was what had awoken him. There was no crying. He listened for a long time, until he understood. The person crying each night must have been Francis. and he'd drifted into a fitful sleep, Matt woke abruptly. He sat up, trying to figure out what had roused him from his sleep. The ward was absolutely silent. And, that, he realized, was what had awoken him. There was no crying. He listened for a long time, until he understood. The person crying each night must have been Francis.

MATT WAS WAITING OUTSIDE M MEAGHAN F FINNERTY'S OFFICE when she came in the next morning. when she came in the next morning.

"You told him I couldn't remember, didn't you?" he said. "Brody. You told him."

A vague look of irritation crossed her face, but she didn't answer. She simply opened her bag and fished around for her keys. She pulled them out, opened the office, and waved Matt in.

"You talked to him, didn't you?" Matt said as soon as they were inside her office.

Meaghan closed the door, then walked around her desk and sat down. But she still didn't say anything.

"I thought you said that what we talked about in here was private."

"I also told you my job was to evaluate you," she said. Her tone was crisp.

"So did you?" he asked.

"Did I what?"

"Did you evaluate me?"

She nodded. "I told him you were ready to go back to your unit."

The words. .h.i.t Matt like a flying brick. But he worked hard to keep his gaze steady, not to blink, not to swallow, not to give a single hint of the panic that was stealing over him. What if he wasn't really ready?

The one thing that had kept him going these past few days was the idea of getting back to his buddies. Now he was terrified. Afraid of leaving the calm, orderly world of the hospital. Afraid that he'd be overwhelmed by the chaos of the streets. Afraid of being afraid.

That was what worried him most. That he wouldn't be able to fire his gun.

He quickly pushed the idea to a corner of his mind. He was going back to the squad. To Justin, Wolf, Figueroa, and Charlene. That was all that really mattered.

Meaghan Finnerty folded her arms across her chest. There was an air of finality about her gesture, a signal, it seemed, that their business was finished. Still, it looked like there was something she wasn't saying.

Finally, she pushed her chair back and stood up. Matt stood slowly, his right leg trembling ever so slightly. Meaghan Finnerty stared into his eyes and for a moment he saw a flicker of the warmth she'd shown him in the past. Then she snapped her hand to her brow in a crisp salute. It was a startling gesture, completely at odds with army protocol for an officer, even a junior officer, to salute a private.

Matt raised his hand to his forehead and returned the salute. "Thank you," he said quietly. "Ma'am."

It wasn't until he'd pulled the door closed behind him and walked away that he understood. Meaghan Finnerty had protected him. She'd told Brody that his memory was unreliable-precisely so he wouldn't wouldn't be questioned. be questioned.

And she was sending him back to his squad. She'd decided that he was ready. She'd never told him what she thought about Ali's death. But she must have determined that he was, as she'd once put it, not a danger to himself, his fellow soldiers, or the Iraqi people.

"WELL, PRIVATE, DID YOU ENJOY YOUR STAY HERE?" KWONG said, scribbling something in Matt's chart. said, scribbling something in Matt's chart.

Matt tried to remember how many times he'd seen Kwong since he'd arrived at the hospital.

"Looks like everything is in order," Kwong said. "Except for the minibar tab. You'll have to settle that on your way out."

Matt gave him a weak, obligatory smile.

"I'm going to send you back with some meds," Kwong said, scratching something on a prescription pad.

"What for?" Matt said.

"Headaches. They might come back, especially if you're exposed to loud noise or bright sunlight."

Matt wondered for a minute if this was a joke. Machine gunfire, explosions, and the roar of heavy vehicles. That was all you heard in the field-as you stood out under a harsh, unforgiving sun. But Kwong wasn't joking. He was looking squarely at Matt with concern etched on his face.

"And keep an eye on that right leg," he said. "It's nothing major, but it could slow you down out there."

Matt's mouth fell open slightly.

"You thought I didn't notice, didn't you?" Kwong was smiling, but he didn't look happy exactly. He hung the clipboard on the foot of the bed, then handed Matt the prescription. "Take care of yourself out there, Private. I don't want to see you back here."

"HERE," NURSE M MCCRAE SAID LATER WHEN SHE CAME BY TO write up Matt's discharge report. She was holding out a satellite phone. "You get to call home again. To tell them you're going back." write up Matt's discharge report. She was holding out a satellite phone. "You get to call home again. To tell them you're going back."

Matt looked at the clock; it was almost midnight at home. He punched in all the international dialing codes, then waited.

His sister picked up. "Matty?" she said. "Is that you? Hey. I got my learner's permit."

"Wow." Matt's voice was flat, distracted. "Great."

"You don't sound that excited," she said. In the background, Gym Cla.s.s Heroes were singing about taking their clothes off.