Soldier Mine.

A Sons of War Novel.

By Lizzy Ford.

Chapter One: Petr.

"Any questions?" I ask.

The classroom of high school freshmen students is quiet to the point of enraptured after hearing my tale. Their teacher is at the back of the room, looking as if she can't decide whether to be upset or likewise intrigued by what I've shared today. Almost everyone is staring at the metal leg that replaced my real one over a year and a half ago.

"Can you run on it?" someone pipes up.

"Even better than a real leg," I reply.

"If you lost both legs, do they have a left leg or just right legs?"

Someone tells the boy his question is stupid. It's one I hadn't thought of before now, and I laugh. "Hopefully they have left legs for people who lose their left one."

"Is that ... skin? Like an android?" one boy asks finally, studying the rubber components of the prototype prosthetic.

"Come on up and see!" I slap the robotic leg that replaced the one blown off near the hip while on a mission in Iraq. It's sturdy and has the appearance of flesh-toned rubber beside space age technology. Boys find it fascinating while girls tend to focus on whether or not I'm still in pain.

After several dozen school visits, I'm no longer surprised by the reactions or the oddness of their questions. It's an honor to serve my country in this capacity, since I'm no longer able to serve it in the field running operations as a Special Forces soldier.

A line forms instantly, made up of boys. The girls hedge around them and me. I sit on a stool and stretch out the robotic leg. It reflects the latest in experimental technology, capable of responding much like a leg should. The appearance, however, is not yet as refined as the technology.

"It looks like Star Wars stuff," one of the boys says, touching the titanium alloy of the thigh.

"It's close."

"Does it hurt?" one of the girls asks.

"Nope," I reply cheerfully.

My answer emboldens them, and the kids crowd around my extended leg in curiosity.

The teacher is grimacing squeamishly as she nears, the normal reaction from an adult. I see her from the corner of my eye and smile to myself. Kids are a lot more fun than adults when it comes to telling them about my leg. There are no pitying or horrified looks from school-aged children, no uncomfortable reassurances that everything will be all right or worst of all, exclusions because they assume I'm less of a person.

I'm not. My leg is gone, but I'm still me. I don't know how to explain that to people, though.

Kids ... well, they get it. They understand that my leg is actually pretty awesome. The amount of science that went into it is astounding and its ability to function like it's a part of me more so. While I could never be grateful for the explosion that cost me a brother and a leg, I'm grateful for the metal contraption that's given me a second chance to walk.

"My dad's doesn't look like this," one girl says, frowning.

"It's pretty high tech," I tell her. "Your dad military?"

"Yeah. He got out last year after his leg was blown off. He was in the Army, too. But he's only missing half his leg."

I reach into my pocket and pull out a business card. "Have him contact me. There's an experimental program I'm in where they custom design legs like mine. They're always looking for more candidates."

She accepts the card.

What I don't tell her: the support services for soldiers' limb replacement are overwhelmed. With the influx of injured service members and veterans the past ten years, the soldiers' hospitals and Veterans Administration have some amazing, cutting edge technology and advancements in limb replacement but don't always have the resources needed to ensure every injured soldier benefits. I have an inheritance I couldn't spend in a hundred lifetimes, sit on the board for a charity created in my brother's name to help wounded vets, and firsthand experience at limb replacement. Helping others is a natural fit, and I'm always on the lookout for people who could use a hand.

The final bell of the day chimes. Interested though they may be, the kids nonetheless dart off to grab their gear and run to catch their buses. The classroom empties out, and I fasten the pant leg of my specially designed dress greens to cover the prosthetic limb once more.

"That was a very ... uh, graphic and ... um, interesting story," the teacher says and clears her throat. She approaches, her silver hair and the lines around her intelligent gaze marking her age around fifty or so.

"Thank you, ma'am." I wink at her, sensing the effort it takes for her not to speak in the disapproving tone she'd probably use with her kids if they told a tale like I just did.

"I have a feeling you were a wild one," she says and purses her lips.

"I was the calmest in my family," I reply and silently acknowledge that's not saying much given the astronomical temperament of my sister and the near suicidal risk taking of my deceased twin brother. "War isn't always a nice, neat business or what video games and movies paint it as. I think I owe it to the kids to entertain and also give a fair representation."

"I appreciate your honesty. I know the kids love you. Every teacher in the school wants you to drop by."

"My pleasure." Standing, I grab the small rucksack I bring with me filled with coins for the kids, pieces of memorabilia I scored overseas and other odds and ends. Depending on the age of the students, I sometimes don't need anything but my story. The younger kids often need props or something to occupy them while they listen.

"Is it hard to kill someone?"

I pause before looking up. The boy's voice is pensive and hushed, shy almost, and the way he asks the question ... unusual. My instincts flare. One of the best ways to stay alive during missions is to know when you're in danger, to sense when the tribesman you're negotiating with is stalling you while his men set up an ambush.

The boy is hiding something.

"Todd, that's not an appropriate question," the teacher chides.

Todd is what I expect him to be: a lanky teen with haunted eyes and an uncertain expression. He ducks his head at the teacher's words. He's clutching his book bag to his chest like it's a shield.

"Sorry. Thanks for the presentation," he mumbles and hurries out.

"Great grades but a little troubled by all accounts," the teacher says when he's gone.

"Troubled how?" I ask curiously. "Needs to be in JROTC troubled?"

"He transferred in two months ago, after school had started, which is highly unusual. I keep telling the administrator you can't uproot a kid and expect him to adjust properly. It's no wonder he had issues at his last school."

"Hmmm." I'm not at all interested in the explanation. It's not telling me what I want to know. I have a soft spot for people in distress, an impulse to help that's only grown stronger since the issue with my leg taught me about the bottomless depths of pain. It bothers me to see someone else suffering.

Whatever it is, though, it's none of my business. I've run across a lot of kids I'd designate as troubled or ill adjusted, and most seem to be in a stage where they turn out fine with time. I push Todd from my thoughts.

"Can I ask you something?" the teacher continues.

"Sure."

"You're family is the Khavalovs who live outside of town?"

"Yeah."

"I thought so."

Our town of Glory Glade, near the coast in Massachusetts, is small enough that no one is more than one degree apart. My siblings and I attended private schools, but my father sponsors athletics and summer programs for the kids and community facilities in town, which is how most of the town knows us.

The quiet ringtone of the phone in my pocket goes off.

"Thanks for hosting me, ma'am," I say and reach in to grab it.

"Have a nice weekend, Petr!"

I smile and turn away, emerging into the now deserted hallways. The text is longer than my father's five-word maximum and far shorter than my sister's text-novels. My step slows as I read it.

Having a bad day. Thought you might want to talk? If not, I understand. But I'd be happy to see you, Petr.

My heart skips a beat, as usual. And as usual, I know I shouldn't be drawn in again. My ex has a way of yanking me back no matter how many times I swear I won't let her.

The old me, the person I used to be before the incident, would've been able to walk away by now. I have more than enough reasons, and only one reason why I can't close that door completely.

I'm not who I used to be, as much as I wish I were. I didn't just lose my leg in battle, I lost my best friend and brother, and he took pieces of me with him the night he gave his life to save mine. I honor and question his sacrifice every day. There's a small part of me that doubts I'm good enough to be the one who survived.

So even knowing I shouldn't agree to meet her, I continue to do so, because the sliver of me that remains broken from the incident in Iraq fears taking a chance on anyone else. I know I'm a back up, just like I know that the walls around my heart are never at risk when it comes to Brianna.

It's a safe existence. I take no chances. I don't get hurt. Living with Mikael's death daily is enough suffering for me.

Even if I don't like how this feels.

I send her a response and pocket the phone. Reaching the doors leading into the courtyard of the sprawling compound, I push them open and stride out into the chilly mid-November air. The sky is overcast, and piles of maroon and gold leaves are at the feet of the trees in the grassy square at the center of the cluster of buildings making up the middle and high schools.

"What's the best way to kill someone?"

I face Todd, who pushes away from the wall of the building. He's still clutching his backpack. He's clearly waiting for me; no one else is in the courtyard. The children are boarding the buses lining the crescent driveway in front of the school or hopping in the cars of their parents through the side entrance.

"It depends," I start slowly, trying to assess where this is coming from. My initial thought, that there might be some kind of abuse going on in his home, ignites a flame of anger. "You okay? Someone threatening you?"

He shakes his head. "What does it depend on?"

"To start with, their size and whether or not your opponent has weapons or martial arts training."

He chews on his lower lip, pensive. The kid is a few inches shorter than me and skinny in the way of someone who recently had a growth spurt. "What if I don't know those things for sure?"

"You don't know the size of your opponent?"

He shakes his head. "I mean ... sorta. It's kind of a blur."

Okay, so not abuse at home. He's clearly afraid of someone. I can't imagine who, if he's new to the area and the threat isn't in his home environment.

Under my scrutiny, Todd steps back. "You're going to report me," he whispers.

"Nah." I offer a smile. "You're not the type to go bat-shit crazy."

"How do you know?"

"I know the kind of person who hurts someone else."

"They thought I was going to bring a gun to school or something in my last school." He gives an irritated snort and tosses his head back to clear his eyes from the long, dishwater blond hair that keeps sliding into his face.

"You're not that guy. But I don't know why you want to know," I add, sensing a timid thaw. "It might help me figure out how to help you."

"You know." He shrugs. "Just because."

"Right."

He says nothing but doesn't leave either, shifting his weight between his feet, a physical reflection of his internal battle.

"Why don't you start from the beginning?"

"I gotta go." Todd starts away.

"Wait. Here." I pull another business card out of my wallet and hand it to him. "In case you decide you wanna talk."

He hesitates then accepts it. With a mumbled thank you, he trots off.

I watch him, torn between curiosity and pity.

My phone vibrates, and I see Brianna has texted me again. Still uncertain this is a good idea, I pick a diner nearby to meet and then head to my motorcycle. I've got enough time to run home and change into civvies before our rendezvous.

Chapter Two: Claudia.

Five minutes might as well be a lifetime. By the time my brother Todd shows up a full seven minutes late, I'm fighting back anxiety and the urge to grab my stuff and run out of work to track him down. The moment he walks through the door, I feel my whole body relax.

"You're late," I tell him, hiding my worry the way I usually do.

He rolls his eyes at me and slings his backpack onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar of the diner where I'm a waitress. I automatically put out a glass of milk for him, along with a chocolate chip cookie. He's holding something.

"What is it?" I ask. "Baseball card?"

"Business card," he says with a shrug and pockets it.