Chapter 3: The Weight of Survival

After Danny’s death, I felt like a ghost walking through the days. The Three Musketeers were gone, and I was the only one left. Larkson’s quiet sketches, Danny’s loud laughter—they were now just echoes in my mind, shadows I couldn’t hold on to. But Danny’s letter stayed with me, a reminder that I had a promise to keep: to keep going, even when it felt impossible.

And so, I stayed. I poured everything I had into my service, taking every mission, every patrol, every assignment they threw at me. The years blurred together—15 long years of war zones, firefights, and endless goodbyes. Each deployment left its mark, not just on my body but on my soul.

Over those years, I was hit by enemy fire more times than I could count. Literally. My fellow soldiers started calling me “Iron James” after the medics tallied 109 bullet wounds I’d survived. Chest, legs, arms—every inch of me bore scars from the life I’d chosen to lead. Each scar felt like a story, a reminder of the weight I carried for those who didn’t make it home.

But no amount of resilience could prepare me for what came next.

It was during a routine patrol, the kind I’d done a hundred times before. The firefight started suddenly, bullets whizzing past us from all sides. I’d been through worse, so I did what I always did: kept my head down, stuck to the training, and pushed forward. Then, I felt it—a sharp, searing pain in my chest.

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When I hit the ground, I knew this one was different. The bullet had pierced my heart. Somehow, I was still conscious, but my vision blurred as my squad rushed to stabilize me. The medics worked frantically, calling it a miracle that I was even alive. They managed to get me to a field hospital, where the doctors told me the truth: the damage was too severe for me to continue serving.

After 16 years in the army, my time was over.

Leaving felt like a second death. The military had become my identity, my way of honoring Danny and Larkson. Without it, I wasn’t sure who I was. I spent months in recovery, both physically and mentally, trying to figure out how to live in a world that didn’t involve missions or orders or gunfire.

Through it all, I kept Larkson’s notebook and Danny’s letter close. They were my anchors, reminders of where I’d come from and who I’d lost. Larkson’s unfinished sketch of the mountains, Danny’s messy handwriting—they were pieces of the past I couldn’t let go of.

Now, as a civilian, I’m still finding my way. Some days, the weight of survival feels unbearable. But then I think of Danny and Larkson—their laughter, their strength, their unwavering belief in finding light in the darkest places. They’re gone, but their legacy lives on in me. And as long as I’m here, I’ll carry their stories forward.