Page 17 of Duty Devoted

Lauren

I woke to Logan shaking my shoulder, his voice low and urgent. “We need to get going soon. Found something we should use before we go.”

The predawn air hung thick with humidity, and I could smell smoke—he’d made a small fire, carefully shielded from view by rocks. As I sat up, working out the kinks from sleeping on rocky ground, I caught another scent that made no sense out here.

“Is that…?”

“Elena’s instant coffee.” Logan crouched near the fire, pouring hot water into our tin cup. “Figured we shouldn’t waste it.”

He handed me the cup filled with what could generously be called coffee. It was watery, bitter, and probably the worst cup I’d ever tasted. But Elena had given it to us from her mother’s special stash, risking trouble to help us escape.

“It’s perfect,” I said, meaning it.

“Best coffee I’ve ever had.” Logan took his turn with the cup while I rolled up our makeshift bedding. “Kid’s got more courage than most adults.”

We shared the rest in companionable silence, passing the tin cup back and forth. There was an intimacy to sharing from the same cup, and I found myself hyperaware of placing my lips where his had just been.

“Ready?” Logan asked, already scattering the fire’s ashes. “It’s going to be tough today.”

The jungle looked lush and green in the morning light. Logan studied the terrain with that constant assessment I was beginning to recognize as habit rather than immediate concern.

“How far to Puerto Esperanza now?”

“Maybe twenty kilometers as the crow flies. But we’re not crows.” He adjusted his pack and started toward what looked like an impassable wall of vegetation. “The terrain’s about to change. Gets swampy from here on.”

Following Logan through the jungle was like watching a master class in problem-solving. When a fallen tree blocked our path, he found ways under, over, or around it. When standing water forced a detour, he chose routes that minimized our exposure while still making progress.

“How do you know which way to go?” I asked as we balanced across a massive trunk suspended over churning water. “Everything looks the same to me.”

“Sun position, slope of the land, water flow direction.” Logan waited for me to catch up before continuing. “Plus, I’ve been keeping track of our general heading since we started.”

“Mental compass?”

“More like internal GPS. You develop it when getting lost means getting dead.”

He offered his hand to help me down from the log. His grip was warm and steady, callused from years of physical work. I probably held on longer than necessary, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“What else did they teach you in the Marines?” I asked as we continued through increasingly wet terrain. “Besides coffee and navigation?”

“Coffee-making is definitely not a Marine skill. That’s pure civilian self-preservation.” Logan tested the stability of a fallen branch before using it as a stepping-stone. “But they taught me to improvise, adapt, overcome. Whatever situation you’re in, figure out how to make it work.”

“Sounds like good life advice in general.”

“Works for tactical situations. Less helpful for…” He paused, seeming to reconsider his words. “Other things.”

The hesitation made me curious, but before I could probe deeper, the solid ground gave way to pools of dark water.

“We’re heading into swamp territory, might as well start your education now. Rule one: if it looks like solid ground but there are no plants growing on it, it’s probably not solid ground.”

The detour took us through dense undergrowth that soaked us both. Vines caught at our clothes, thorns scraped exposed skin, and humidity made every breath feel like drinking from the air. But Logan never complained, never showed frustration with the slow progress.

“You’re enjoying this,” I realized as we emerged from a particularly challenging thicket. “All the problem-solving and route-finding.”

“Better than sitting in an office somewhere,” Logan admitted. “I like work that requires thinking on your feet.”

“What would you be doing if you weren’t doing this? If you’d stayed civilian after the Marines?”

Logan was quiet for so long, I thought he wasn’t going to answer. Finally, he said, “No idea. That’s part of the problem.”

“You never thought about it? College, career training, normal civilian job?”

“Normal civilian job doing what?” Logan held back a branch so I could pass through without getting smacked. “Sit in a cubicle somewhere, pushing papers around? Pretend to care about quarterly reports and office politics?”

“There are other options. Teaching, maybe? You’re good at explaining things.”

“Who’s going to hire an ex-Marine with PTSD to teach kids?”

The admission slipped out before he could stop it, and I saw him tense as he realized what he’d revealed. PTSD. That explained the hypervigilance, the way he sometimes seemed to be listening to sounds the rest of us couldn’t hear.

“PTSD doesn’t disqualify you from teaching,” I said carefully. “Lots of veterans work in education.”

“Maybe.” His tone carried a warning that this topic was closed. “Speaking of education, we should probably focus on getting you through Swamp Navigation 101.”

I recognized the deflection but decided to let it go. He’d already revealed more than he’d intended.

“Fine,” I said. “But for the record, I think you’d make a good teacher. You’ve been teaching me survival skills all morning without making me feel stupid for not knowing them.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his features. “That’s different.”

“How?”

“You’re not a kid. And you actually listen when someone’s trying to help you.”

“Most kids do too, if you approach them right.”

Logan made a noncommittal sound and focused on navigating around a pool of standing water that looked deceptively shallow. But I caught him glancing at me with what might have been curiosity, like he was reassessing assumptions he’d made about himself.

By midday, we’d made decent progress despite the challenging terrain. The landscape was definitely changing—fewer massive trees, more open spaces filled with standing water, and the ground that squelched under our feet even in the “dry” areas.

“Lunch break,” Logan announced, selecting a fallen log that would serve as both seating and table. “How are your feet holding up?”

“Still attached, which I’m counting as a win.” I settled beside him, grateful for the rest. “Though I’m pretty sure my boots will never be the same.”

“Jungle has a way of destroying gear.” Logan pulled out our remaining can of food, studying the label. “Beans again. Sorry about the limited menu.”

“Beans are fine. Better than some of the field rations I’ve heard about.”

“You’ve heard about MREs?”

“Medical school friends who went military. They had stories.” I accepted the can and spoon from him, noting how he’d portioned out a smaller serving for himself without making it obvious. I took a bite and handed both back to him. “Meals Rejected by Everyone, right?”

“Meals Refusing to Exit.” Logan’s grin was quick and genuine as he took his turn with the spoon. “Though, honestly, after a few days in the field, anything hot counts as gourmet.”

“Is that why you appreciate real coffee so much?”

“That and about a hundred other small comforts you don’t think about until they’re gone.” Logan leaned back against a tree trunk, passing the can back to me. “Hot showers, cold beer, beds that don’t have rocks poking through.”

“Beds that aren’t made of broken cots and jungle floors?”

“Those too.”

I found myself studying his profile as he scanned our surroundings. Even relaxed, he had a readiness to him, a coiled energy that never quite dissipated.

“Do you ever truly relax?” I asked, accepting the can for another bite. “Not just tactical rest?”

“Sometimes.” Logan looked at me sideways. “Why?”

“You’re always monitoring everything around us. Even now, eating lunch, you’re calculating threats and escape routes.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“Or trauma response.” I kept my tone conversational, medical rather than judgmental. “Hypervigilance is one of the hallmarks of PTSD. Your brain trying to protect you from threats that might not exist.”

Logan’s jaw tightened. “Plenty of threats exist out here.”

“True. But I bet you were just as watchful back at the clinic, and that was relatively safe.”

He was quiet for a moment, then surprised me by answering. “Multiple tours in combat zones tend to rewire your threat-assessment systems. Sometimes the wiring gets stuck.”

“That’s actually a pretty good description of how PTSD works.” I finished the last of my beans, then leaned back against my own tree. “Have you ever talked to anyone about it? Found strategies that help?”

“Tried once. Didn’t work out.”

“What happened?”

“Lady kept trying to get me to process my feelings about combat.” Disdain dripped from his words. “Like talking about watching people die was going to magically fix anything.”

That sucked. Anyone who’d spent more than five minutes in Logan’s company should’ve been able to see that traditional methods wouldn’t be a good fit for him.

“Not all therapy is about processing feelings. Sometimes it’s about learning coping strategies or retraining your brain’s threat-response systems.”

“You sound like you know about this stuff.”

“Medical school included psychiatric rotations. Plus, I’ve treated veterans before.” I chose my words carefully. “PTSD is just another medical condition, Logan. Like diabetes or high blood pressure. It responds to treatment when you find the right approach.”

“Right approach being what?”

“Depends on the person. Sometimes medication, sometimes specific types of therapy, sometimes a combination.” I could see him listening despite his skepticism. “The point is, there are options that don’t involve sitting in a circle talking about your feelings.”

Logan was quiet, considering. “How do you know which approach works?”