In my first life I had been a runner. I’d stick a folded piece of paper in my waistband, hook a pen to my T-shirt, and let my mind wander as I ran. When an idea worth remembering wiggled into my mind, I’d stop and scribble it down. I’d started using my time alone in Van for the same purpose, turning off Mighty Chair’s sound system and letting my thoughts fill the silence. Instead of a pen and paper, though, I had Cher.

I considered my options. I had to prove that McLane was right: a cyber-footprint could be used to positively identify the source of computer code, and in this instance, that footprint could be traced directly to the NSA. And I had to do it without the government learning I had this information.

That meant trusting someone else. There were several men I’d served with who probably had this level of computer expertise, people who once had trusted me with their life. But those people had been trained by the government, had risked their lives for the government, were receiving benefits from the government, and maybe still worked in some capacity for the government, so they probably weren’t safe bets. I whittled down my list until I realized that the person who might be able to answer this question had been right under my nose for the past two years.

15

As part of my recuperation I had become a gym rat. What I could no longer do with my legs, I intended to do with my upper body. At first I sort of felt my way around the circuit, staying away from certain pieces of equipment, figuring out my own modifications on others. But as I gained confidence, I went back into attack mode, figuring out ways to push, pull, lift, and stretch without the use of my legs. My problem was that I couldn’t find a spotter. While people were polite and encouraging, they gave me a pass on spotting, probably more for their own safety than mine. I couldn’t blame them. But I kept showing up, doing my workout by myself. At times I’d catch one of them watching me, then turning away when caught. Who knows what they were thinking or feeling—sympathy, empathy, maybe relief it wasn’t them? Gradually, though, I earned their respect.

Hack Wilson had been the first person to trust me. One morning he shouted across the gym, “Stone! Get over here and spot me. It’s your turn.”

He was standing by the weight rack, chalking his gloves. The gym got silent. Lifting was serious and dangerous. People got hurt. Spotters had to be alert, strong and stronger. “You sure?” I asked.

“Hell yeah!” he boomed back. “Damn straight. You been hanging around here too long without doing your part. Nobody gets a free ride.”

It was a pretty dramatic moment. When they make the movie, this will be one of the highlights. People stopped to watch, no longer pretending they didn’t see me. It was a little tricky, and even with all his bravado, Hack knew he was taking a chance. But we worked at it; we figured it out and became gym buddies. We made the necessary accommodations, and at least three mornings a week, we were separated only by a few inches and a hundred pounds. To the accompaniment of moans and groans, we got into each other’s lives.