Behind My Back

 202.

After my Saturday round of physical therapy, three sessions of the now infamous yoga flow zen salutation martial arts dance of destiny, Harlan, Julie and I meet in my room. I am scheduled to be discharged tomorrow afternoon. In conjunction with the hospital staff and team of specialists, they have preformed a magnificent choreography of what I call a miraculous rehabilitation operetta.

The three items on our agenda today comprise the current scope of my universe.

1) Smooth out the rough edges of my presentation to Hartaugh.
2) Solidify the logistics for my return to civilization upon discharge.
3) The news from Drysdale.

As Julie outlines the discussion, I promptly ask for their consideration in the order of topical presentation, item number three being the one I see as potentially having highest priority. They see no issue and agree, not wanting to hear me say that was an order hiding under the thin veil of politeness and parliamentary procedure.

Julie's glance at Harlan is met by his own exactly half-way. The question being who gets to anchor the news. I recognize each of their tendencies and ask for the proverbial cut to the chase. Julie leads, "Drysdale has been working the streets and monitoring chatter since the hit," she reports. Harlan jumps in, seeing no need to leverage the silence to build additional tension and drama, "there has been some activity suggesting the Queen is…"

"Alive?" I interject, unable to hold my own horses back.  

"With a high degree of probability," adds Julie.

"Probability or certainty?"

"We are getting regular updates from Drysdale and hope to have something solid in the next few days."

"Fucking outstanding," I react like a knee jerk, "We can use this in the narrative. Hartaugh doesn't need to know the who, just the what. He needs to be firmly reminded that we will never leave one of our fallen behind. We find our MIAs."

I try to slam my left fist to the table with dramatic theatrics but am immediately scolded my my central nervous system and forced to improvise the considerable weaker gesture of asking for their views.

Harlan's a, "Hell yeah." And Julie's a, "Damn right."

We have a consensus yet I can't escape the image of rescuing the Queen with one arm tied behind my back.