He doesn’t speak unless he feels like he has to. I mean I think that’s part of it. He will nod or shake his head. It’s actually talking that he… struggles with? Refuses to do unless he thinks he’s being ordered to speak?

I’m not trained to analyze behaviors and know at a glance that a trigger has happened and some kind of trauma is being relived or put on repeat in someone’s brain. A little training on how to approach someone who’s panicked is what I have. That only gets me so far. I’m not trained to handle night terrors. I’m not trained to monitor diets and make sure someone is getting the nutrition they need. I’m not sure how to handle all of this. I’m just… me.

…Alright. Take a breath.

You don’t need to be a specialist to know that someone who is scared needs space. You know he needs a safe space and you’ve given him that. You don’t push him into anything.

He takes some of the things I say as unquestionable like he has to do them though. Like I’m giving him orders. Which is… I don’t know what I could say that would change that line of thinking. I’m being more careful to make requests rather than say things like “Please eat.” I mean that doesn’t sound like an order to me, but he takes it as one. He gets this strangely blank look in his eyes when I ask questions like “Would you like to pick the film?” or “What sounds good for dinner?” too.

“Maeve?”

Fingers too close to my face!

Sophia settled back into her chair. “You were saying?”

Oh. Right. Work. Pointers. Yes.

“Sorry. Lost in thought for a moment there.”

“Not a problem.” Another third of her sandwich disappeared in hurried bites. “You’re dealing with a lot right now.”

That’s… one way to put it.

“Thank you. Sorry. I’m really not trying to space out while you’re giving me advice.”

She pushed the last bite of her sandwich into her mouth and shook her head.

“No, no. I’m glad you’re asking. You know you could direct him to a shelter, right? You’ve let people stay with you before, but they were people we knew. It was a short term thing and this doesn’t sound like a short term thing. Nothing new from the police on family or friends?”

I sighed, a headache starting to form just remembering my last conversation with them.

“Nothing new, huh?”

I shook my head. “Without a last name and no matches in the database they can’t place him. No matching description in the missing persons reports for the last six months. No calls into any of the nearby stations asking for a guy of his description,” I answered.

She nodded. Reached over to pat my shoulder sympathetically.

“Can I be real with you for a moment, Maeve?”

Oh here we go. The look. Tough love time.

“Go ahead.”

She reached back to toss her sandwich wrapper into the trash can, interlocked her fingers, stared at a point on the table, and nodded to herself before setting her hands in her lap.

“Here’s the bottom line, Maeve: he needs help.”

“I completely agree.”

She nodded. “He needs help, Maeve. Like, serious help. He’s non-verbal –”

“For the most part,” I interrupted. “He has spoken. It’s just been sparingly.”

She squared her shoulders. “He is mostly non-verbal, shows difficulty making simple decisions, and is very emotionally guarded. He could potentially be on the spectrum you know. Autism isn’t my specialty but –”

“I don’t think he’s autistic. I think a lot of it stems from trauma.”

“Well, he most certainly has trauma. Probably PTSD. He has no records here, none that we could search for because he won’t tell you his last name.”

This again? Really?

“I have asked about that but… Sophia you have to understand. He frequently forgets that his name is James.”

She choked on her sip of fizzy drink. “He- He forgets his own name?”

“That’s what I’ve been saying! This trauma runs deep, Sophia! Deep!” I exclaimed, tipping back a little in my chair. “Whoever he was working for – No. I really don’t think whoever was in charge of his ops was supposed to be in charge of him. Or he didn’t work for them willingly at least. I think whoever these “handlers” are – They are bad people that broke him down and used him to do their dirty work.”

She gave me that look. Raised eyebrow. Clinical detachment reserved for the hard talks with patients. And me when she thinks I’m being naïve.

“Maeve, the military runs a lot of different operations. Their work isn’t exactly pleasant. We know that.”

“Because I’m at the front desk I’m clueless about this apparently. I just think every op is sunshine and rainbows,” I snarked back.

She scoffed. Did that thing she does with her hair when she’s getting agitated that people aren’t agreeing with her.

“This isn’t just coming back with survivor’s guilt or being so depressed you can’t get out of bed because you did violent things in another country. This is different, Sophia. This is –”

I couldn’t come up with the right words. Couldn’t quite comprehend it still. The enormity of the trauma. The way he looked at me sometimes. The fact that he-

“They had him so convinced he was nothing but a weapon that he had no idea he had a heartbeat,” I tacked on before she could say whatever she was gathering breath up to say.

Another scoff. “That’s not possible.”

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m serious!”

“Soldiers carry weapons into battle. Some may even be trained to be weapons on the battlefield. None of them forget their humanity to such an extreme degree.”

“I’m telling you he had no idea. He was honest to God surprised to feel his own heartbeat.”

Her phone buzzed signaling the end of lunch. I tossed my empty water bottle into the trash while she sucked down one last sip of sprite through her straw.

“You sure you don’t want to send this guy on his way?” she asked.

I rolled my eyes. “Yes. I’ve already assured James that he can stay. He needs some stability.”

“Which is a great idea, but you need to be able to relax when you get home. You can’t constantly be looking out for this guy you barely know. You aren’t sleeping well.”

Stupid dark circles.

“He needs someone in his corner,” I answered stubbornly.

She gave up the struggle to finger comb her hair back into its previous style. Gave me that defeated quirk of a smile that says she’s too tired to argue and said, “You’re too nice of a person sometimes.”

I shook my head at that.

“Yes, you are, or you wouldn’t be doing this.”

No one should have to go through recovery all alone. James has no family that we can find. No friends have come asking for him. He’s obviously in pain. He’s confused, constantly on his guard. I would hate to be hurt so badly and left to pick up the pieces by myself.

“Stop by my office after your shift, okay? I have freebie notepads you can bring him to write in. It’s a start.”

I have the best coworkers.

“Thank you.”