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I landed in London.

Dr. Smith assessed the leg and said it was bad — very bad — but it had been saved in time. The repair would take a long time and would not be comfortable. He scheduled the first procedure for the following week.

I wasn't afraid. People who have already almost died find the prospect of discomfort relatively manageable.

The Harrington family came to the hospital.

Gerald's sister, Caroline, walked in first, took one look at me, and put her arms around me without saying a word. She held on for a long moment.

I hadn't been held like that in a very long time. I hadn't realised how tired I was of going without it.

Gerald arrived later, still in his work clothes. He'd come straight from a meeting. He brought Theo and Max with him — his twin sons, fifteen years old, both of them studying me with the frank curiosity of teenagers who've decided someone is interesting.

He sat beside my bed and said: "You didn't ask to be born into any of this. None of it was your fault. I missed twenty-something years that I didn't know were happening, and I need to learn how to do this. But I want to."

He wasn't a man who made large speeches.

The twins filled the gap.

"How did you get up the nerve to go into Syria on your own?" the first one asked. "Were you scared?"

"Dad showed us the clip from the evacuation you covered in Libya. You didn't even duck."

They went home eventually, told to finish their homework.

I lay in the hospital bed in the quiet and looked at the ceiling.

Somewhere in me, something had shifted.