Chapter 7 - The Floors of Baltimore
The Baltimore Veterans Affairs Medical Center was a vast, sprawling brick complex built in the 1950s, smelling perpetually of floor wax, industrial bleach, and lukewarm soup.
On Saturday morning at 0640, Jason stood at the front entrance wearing worn jeans, work boots, and an old gray sweatshirt. The biting winter wind whipped through the parking lot as Harold Mitchell pulled up in a faded 2004 Buick LeSabre, the engine ticking quietly as he cut the ignition.
Harold stepped out, wearing his navy sweater and a green baseball cap that read 1st Cavalry Division. He tossed a pair of heavy rubber work gloves at Jason’s chest.
"Catch," Harold grunted.
Jason caught them cleanly. "Good morning, Sergeant Mitchell."
"Drop the military titles while we're inside these doors, son," Harold said, walking toward the loading dock entrance. "To the people in these wards, rank doesn't mean anything. Pain doesn't care if you were a private or a colonel. Grab the laundry cart from bay three."
For the next four weeks, Jason’s life transformed into a grueling marathon of physical labor and emotional reckoning.
There were no salutes. Nobody stood at attention when he walked into a room. Instead, Jason spent his Saturdays lifting stroke patients into rehabilitation pools, cleaning spilled pureed food from plastic trays, and listening to men who had lost their limbs, their families, and their minds to wars fought decades before he was born.
In Ward 4B, Jason met Corporal Arthur Jenkins, a ninety-one-year-old Korean War veteran who suffered from severe dementia. Every Saturday at two o'clock, Jenkins would panic, believing his position was being overrun by enemy forces. The orderly staff usually sedated him.
On Jason’s fifth weekend, Harold stopped the nurse with the syringe.
"Jason," Harold said softly from the doorway. "Go sit beside him."
Jason walked over to the trembling old man, whose bony hands were clawing frantically at the white sheets. Jason sat on the edge of the metal bed frame, gently took Jenkins's weathered hand, and leaned in close.
"Corporal Jenkins," Jason spoke softly, his voice trembling slightly. "This is Lieutenant Reed. The perimeter is secure, soldier. Our lines are holding. You're safe. We've got the watch."
Arthur Jenkins stopped thrashing. His milky, unfocused eyes turned toward Jason's face. Slowly, the terror cleared from the old man's expression, replaced by a deep, shuddering sigh of relief. His frail fingers wrapped around Jason's thumb with surprising strength.
"You've... you've got the watch, Lieutenant?" Jenkins whispered in a broken rasp.
"I've got the watch, Corporal," Jason promised, tears blurring his vision as he squeezed the old man's hand. "Rest now."
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Jenkins closed his eyes and drifted into a peaceful sleep.
Standing by the door, Harold Mitchell watched in silence, a faint, proud smile touching his weathered lips.
