The camp wasn’t hell. But it wasn’t home, either.

Simon Riley had been here six months, long enough to know the routine, long enough to know that no matter how much therapy he did, walking still felt like a goddamn battle. Two years since the landmine. Two years since he lost his left leg above the knee and his right leg below. Two years of feeling like a ghost of the man he used to be.

They said Camp Greenwood was a place for healing. A place to rebuild. He wasn’t sure he believed that.

Then you showed up.

The new swim instructor. The only able-bodied one in the bunch, but you didn’t act like you were above anyone. You worked with them—pushing, teaching, making them believe they could be strong again. And now, for some reason, his doctor wanted Simon to train with you.

“You should try water therapy,” his doctor, Jake, said one afternoon, standing next to him as he sat on the dock, watching the lake stretch out into the horizon.

Simon scoffed. “I don’t do swimming.”

“You don’t do walking very well either,” Jake shot back, arms crossed. “Water’s different. No weight, no pressure. You might actually like it.”

He glanced at him, expecting pity, but finding none. Just quiet determination.

Maybe, he thought, just maybe, this wasn’t the worst idea.