Home. The cold metal of an operating table. The darkness of the shooting range, made sickly green in my prosthetic’s night vision. The floor-to-ceiling window of my bedroom, showing me the glittering cityscape below, all the places I’ll never reach. Home. The low, smoky heat of the woodstove. The warm glow of the oil lamps, casting everything in pale gold. Inesa’s hair spread out across the pillow, turned shiny in the moonlight that slips between the cracks in the wall. I could live like this, I realize. In just the spaces between walls.
