He knew it must be hard, to listen to him remember things that didn't really involve her - he wished it could be different, she wasn't the only one who wanted him to get better right now. He was out of the Marines, discharged, they couldn't send him back - and yet that war had followed him all the way home, to Rutherford, where he couldn't remember anything of the twenty-one years he'd supposedly lived here.

But what Summer said was a good idea; he nodded, pulling over more of the letters to look at, like maybe they could help, like reading more would get things moving that much faster. Of course, as she said she wished she could help more and moved to stand, he turned in the chair, eyes following her across the kitchen as he said, "No - Summer, you've helped more than anyone. I mean it. I remember everything since the moment I woke up on the Navy evac ship, and no one has been as caring or as patient or as kind as you have been to me since I've been home. And I know I must be hurting you terribly - " He couldn't help it, he moved to stand from the table, wanting to approach her, to touch her on the arm, but maybe that was wrong, maybe it was too soon, maybe it wouldn't mean the right things. "I wish I wasn't hurting you the way I am. I wish I was better, for you." Because all he knew was that she was hurting, and it was his fault.