Read Online Trauma by Daniel Palmer - Free Book Online Page B

brought her over to the wall map and pointed to Libya, the location of the last image. She touched the same spot as he did, and then rubbed her hands all over Europe.
    â€œLibya,” David said.
    â€œLibya,” Gabby repeated, then pointed to the image showing thousands of red-shirted populist supporters of Thailand’s ousted prime minister, Thaksin Shinawatra. “Are they excited about the same things?”
    â€œWell, not exactly,” David said.
    â€œHow come they’re all wearing the same color shirt?”
    â€œBecause they believe in the same things,” David said. “They’re a group.”
    â€œWhat group do you belong to?”
    â€œI don’t,” David said. “I work for myself.”
    David was a stringer. He had built his career working as a freelancer, forgoing a regular salary in exchange for the opportunity to cover stories that actually interested him. Most of the time that interest took him to places the State Department was advising Americans to avoid. Syria. Iraq. Afghanistan. Yemen. A journalistic tumbleweed, he would probably still be in some red-flagged country had he not been kidnapped.
    It was not a terrible ordeal, nor was it an experience he would willingly relive. The opposition forces in Syria had decided that David was part of Assad’s regime and, without judge or jury, took him prisoner. For three weeks David lived in a windowless concrete room and had no contact with the outside world. Eventually, he befriended a guard who was looking to learn English. With the guard’s help, David was able to contact the State Department. A contact at The Current, technically David’s employer, spoke by satellite phone to the opposition forces holding him hostage. The editor managed to convince those in charge that David was in the country on assignment and that David’s reporting could be of help to their cause back in the United States. A few hours later they let David go, and the next day he was on a plane headed home. Somebody else would have to help the rebels’ crusade.
    Word of David’s ordeal spread quickly to all the people who regularly hired him for stringer jobs. In just a few weeks, David’s greatest asset—his willingness to put himself in harm’s way to get the story—became his biggest liability. Nobody wanted to bail “Cowboy Dave” out of any more international hot water, and suddenly the only work he could drum up was for local newspapers like the Lowell Observer .
    A reporter buddy hooked David up with Anneke, a respected editor who had dialed down her career in exchange for some of her remaining stomach lining. Though he was grateful for the work, a feel-good piece about a marine conquering his PTSD was not his dream assignment.
    â€œAre you going to join a group?” Gabby asked.
    David’s cell phone buzzed. Anneke .
    â€œHmmm, I might be asked to leave another group,” David said, setting Gabby down on the floor. “Go play for a bit. I have to talk on the phone.”
    Gabby ran over to the toys.
    â€œAnneke,” David answered, sounding chipper and cheery. “I was just going to call you.”
    â€œBecause your e-mail doesn’t work? No worries. I’ve got a pen. You can dictate it to me.”
    â€œHa, that’s actually kind of funny.”
    â€œI’m a real gas. Where’s the story, David?”
    David could picture Anneke’s scowl by the tone of her voice. She was fifty-something, fit and slim from running and Pilates, with shoulder-length blond hair. Poor Anneke walked under a black cloud; everywhere she went, it was raining deadlines. And David was only adding to her misery.
    He’d make it up to her. A bottle of Chianti and she’d forget this little lapse. She owed him a pass anyway. His first story for her was supposed to be a puff piece about a bright foster kid from Lowell who won some creative writing contest. The fifteen