“Where, where is he?”

“We’re still at Bagram.”

“At Bagram.”

“That’s right.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“Not right now.” She was evading. And she thought: If I don’t tell her facts who will? Someone she doesn’t know. A doctor, someone better at it. But Frank had wanted it to be her.

“Is he in surgery?”

“He had one operation,” Mary said. “To relieve pressure on his brain.”

“Oh my God. His brain.”

“Nothing got blown off. Nothing’s missing.”

“Thank God. Oh, thank God.”

“It could be a lot worse.”

“Are you okay? Were you injured?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You ejected.”

“No. I didn’t—we weren’t.”

“Oh. You weren’t with him?”

“I was, yes, I was. We weren’t flying.”

“Tell me it wasn’t an IED.”

“It wasn’t. Clara, it was a freak accident. To be honest with you, it was a stupid, dumb thing. We were sledding, and we shouldn’t have been.”

“Sledding? Did you say sledding?”

“I said that, yes.”

“He got hurt sledding!”

“I’m afraid, yeah, he did.”

“Oh, you should have said that right out!”

Mary felt abashed. Maybe she should have. She dropped her voice.

“It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s wonderful!”

Now she saw what she’d done. She’d either have to leave her with this impression, of barely banged-up sledding Frank, or pull her back to traumatic brain injury, hockey or football but maybe vegetable. That’s what she would have said to Frank, if it had been Clara injured: hockey or football but maybe vegetable. A surge of missing him knocked against her.

“I just thought you should know,” Mary managed, throat tight.

“Well, they’ll have him back in the cockpit in no time!”

Frank’s wife would be an optimist. That made all the sense in the world. Mary saw she had to give her something straighter, though. People can handle it, they always can. Maybe that’s why Frank wanted her to be the one to make this call.

“Clara, he’s going to Germany, and from there to Walter Reed. It was a fall, and it was far. He’s not regained consciousness since, which is not the best sign. He could be great, you know, football-concussion level of problems, or it could be bad. Vegetative. That level of bad. Or, as mostly happens, something in between.”

“Oh, Mary.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not sure I …”

“Clara, don’t worry.” Christ, she was saying the words “sorry” and “worry.” She couldn’t stand them. And she’d misjudged. She shouldn’t have laid it out for Clara. Frank had wanted her to do this because she was a woman. He’d known all along her tough-girl pose was just that.

“I’m worried. I’m … I’m … I’m … I’m,” Clara stammered.

“Clara, where’s your mother?”

“In the Ozarks—you know that.”