Read Online Trauma by Daniel Palmer - Free Book Online

all jargon and imperiousness. Forty-eight bucks down the drain; Anneke would not be pleased. David could have written in a paragraph what the IAM took sixty pages to convey. Good on you, DOD and VA, for trying to fix this mess. Bad on you, because PTSD in the military is getting worse, and you have no ability to track the outcomes .
    David turned his head toward the window and the view, unobstructed by the greenery that would develop with spring. The apartment, though small, felt roomy, and an obtrusive tree branch was a fine tradeoff for cheap rent in Porter Square.
    Bosra meowed, and David responded with a gentle scratch between his ears. The cat, a rescue, was named after ancient ruins in Syria. The name reminded David of one of many spectacular sites he had visited as a journalist, and an aspect of his career he missed. Having spent the majority of his professional life chasing political strife, David had become addicted to the rush. Nothing could match the intensity of covering an angry mob, of documenting people’s most visceral passion for freedom and security. For someone who’d smoked marijuana only a couple of times and who was rendered tipsy by a single scotch, political upheaval was a different sort of drug, and David missed the high. While some of David’s classmates from Columbia embedded with a military unit only to up their profile with a newspaper or network, David honestly enjoyed dangerous assignments, though he preferred politics to platoons.
    A knock on the door pushed David to get up. Meowing in protest, Bosra leapt off David’s chest and landed noiselessly on the hardwood floor. David ambled over to his front door. “Who is it?” he called, knowing full well.
    â€œDavid, it’s Emma.”
    David opened the door, grinning. He suspected his bushy brown hair was standing up like a Chia pet, and he was dressed abysmally in gray sweats and a blue T-shirt, but he was uninhibited with Emma. She had started out as his landlord, became his friend, and then briefly his lover, until both decided that friends was where they belonged. Now he loved her in a way that would have been difficult had they still been dating. Emma was holding Gabby, a delightful four-year-old, in her arms. Gabby had cheeks to cause a chipmunk envy and two animated, big brown eyes. Her shoulder-length blond hair was tied into pigtails. Gabby’s whole body squirmed excitedly when she saw David.
    â€œHi, Uncle David!”
    David warmed every time she called him that. Emma handed Gabby to him and the little girl squealed and kicked as David tickled under her chin. Whenever Gabby laughed, a sweet high-pitched chuckle, the world stopped turning.
    â€œWho’s gotten so much bigger since the last time I saw you?” He could not resist speaking to her in a high-pitched voice.
    â€œDavid, you ate breakfast with us this morning.”
    â€œKids develop quickly these days.”
    â€œCan I play with the toys?” Gabby whirled her legs instead of asking to be put down.
    â€œYou know the spot,” David said.
    Soon as he set her on the floor, Gabby bounded over to a corner featuring a play mat and a bunch of toys—blocks, Thomas trains, and enough plastic animals to re-create the San Diego Zoo in miniature. Emma did not remove her own brown tweed coat and wool hat, which let David know she would not be staying.
    â€œShe sure does like coming up here.”
    â€œAnd I like having her here,” David said.
    Emma got a wistful look as she watched Gabby playing with the toys.
    â€œNo offense,” she said, in a quiet, almost conspiratorial tone, “but it would be nice if once in a while she got to visit with her father instead of her surrogate dad.”
    â€œNone taken,” David said. “And it would be nice if her father hadn’t moved to California for work.” David put air quotes around the word “work,” in this case a euphemism for