"I've been going to a new shrink. You know what she told me? She said I need to cut old ties and start fresh."

"What does that mean?"

"She says I shouldn't talk to you anymore. You believe that?"

Mitchell snorted. "Sounds like you need a new shrink."

"Maybe if you and I talked."

"Tang, that's just . . . What happened wasn't our fault. We did our jobs. We move on."

"And it's that easy?" Rutang held up his hand. "Wait. Don't answer that. I'm a selfish bastard. I come here and dump my problems on you. Hell, let's get drunk!"

Mitchell leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. "See, Rutang? There's no problem that can't be solved with sufficient quantities of gunpowder and alcohol."

They clinked beer bottles and took big swigs. But behind Mitchell's grin was a world of guilt and sorrow that he would not share with anyone.

Writer Tim O'Brien had written that famous story, "The Things They Carried," a story Mitchell had read over a dozen times. As a soldier, Mitchell knew he must be able to shoulder so much more than just his pack. As the load got heavier, he needed to become stronger.

Now a living example of that commitment to overcome was rolling directly toward him with a hand extended. Marc Entwhiler was the Black Hawk pilot who had been shot down and paralyzed back on Basilan Island.

In the months following the accident, Entwhiler had sent Mitchell several e-mails thanking him for the hope, inspiration, and courage to go on.

Mitchell took no credit for that. It was Entwhiler's indomitable spirit--a spirit that had allowed him to shoulder the load of his accident--that gave him hope and inspired so many others, Mitchell included. Entwhiler was now working as a civilian consultant, teaching other Black Hawk pilots and engineers the skills he'd learned through a joint partnership between the army and the Rockwell Collins Simulation and Training Solutions facility in Huntsville, Alabama.

"Scott, congratulations, man!"

"Thanks, Marc."

"Sorry I'm late. Couldn't get my damned wheels to spin any faster."

"You might remember Sergeant McDaniel?"

"As a matter of fact, I do." They shook hands.

After sharing a few jokes, Entwhiler updated Mitchell with news regarding his personal and professional life. The details weren't as important as his tone. The guy was a nuclear reactor, and when he rolled off to say hi to a few other colleagues, Mitchell glanced over at Rutang, who just looked at him and nodded.

As the night wore on, and Mitchell was twice dragged onto the dance floor to jump and scream along to AC/ DC's "Shook Me All Night Long," he spotted a tall, slender woman with short blond hair seated alone in the back of the room. He'd never seen her before. The woman's black dress fit her like a coat of paint, and her simple pearl necklace seemed to rise up from the perfectly smooth planes of her neck.