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“Well, first, because I just don’t want to. Second, it’s too soon. Wyatt and I just broke up.”

“Semantics,” she says, waving her hand through the air dismissively. “You were over Wyatt long before you cut the cord. Moving on will be a good thing. How about Mark from the surgical floor?”

“He has a boyfriend.”

“Oh,” Maggie says with a pout. “How about—?”

“How about you drop it?” I say, licking my spoon.

Maggie gives me the stare-down, and I return it with a cheeky grin. “Fine. Your loss,” she says, shrugging.

I watch quietly, eating away at the ice cream as Maggie pulls up the Internet and logs into her MySpace account. My eyes bounce around the screen, watching her click through several people’s profiles. Eventually, I get bored and grab the remote. I don’t know how she has time for all that. I certainly don’t. Well, I didn’t until now…

Turning on

the TV, I find the news and drop the remote, listening as the anchor talks about yet another shooting in the city. “What is this world coming to?” I whisper.

“Katie?”

“What?”

“You need to update your MySpace page.”

“I know,” I answer, my eyes glued to the TV.

“No, seriously.” I glance over at Maggie and she points to her computer. “Your profile picture is from like two years ago, and there are a massive amount of pictures of you and Wyatt. Oh, look! According to your profile, the two of you are engaged.”

“Who cares?” I shrug, turning my attention back to the TV. “It’s not like I’m ever on MySpace anyway, and I don’t interact with anyone on there. I should probably just delete it.”

“You will not delete it,” she protests, poking me in the side. Laughing, I bat her hand away. “Awww, there’s Bailey … when she was sweet,” she mumbles. “Speaking of Bailey, how did things go the other night?”

“Not good. She’s mad at me. Again.”

“She has nothing to be mad about. It isn’t her decision. And she’s your sister; she should want you to be happy.”

Stabbing my spoon in the ice cream, I set the tub on the coffee table. “Can we talk about something else?” I ask. When I look up at Maggie, I see her eyes soften and she offers me a sympathetic smile.

“Sure,” she says, looking down at her computer.

A loud boom startles me, and I turn my attention back to the flat screen that is nestled against the wall. Flashes of bright orange light illuminate the screen. The horrific scene fades and a petite blonde comes into view, her high-pitched voice resonating through the speakers.

Four people were injured and two killed early Saturday morning when a roadside bomb struck a U.S. military convoy.

Devin. Oh my gosh, Devin!

My heart nearly explodes from my chest as I struggle to comprehend what she’s saying.

The attack occurred thirty kilometers south of Baghdad. This comes just two days after a string of bombings across Iraq have killed thirty-nine people, three of whom were American soldiers.

I place a trembling hand over my mouth as thoughts of Devin race through my head. Is that where he’s at? Is he okay? Are his men okay? My adrenaline spikes, pumping nervous energy through my veins, and I scoot forward on the couch. Dropping my hand from my mouth, I prop my elbows on my knees and listen carefully, each word causing my stomach to twist in knots.

A military spokesperson tells us that the four injured on Saturday were, in fact, American soldiers, and all are expected to make a full recovery. The two fatalities were not Americans but Iraqi civilians.

Several emotions hit me all at once with a force so powerful I feel it in my bones.

Fear.

Anxiety.