But I found them. I found them all.

And then the nightmares came. And I couldn’t sleep anymore.

Which meant I couldn’t find anyone anymore. Because I couldn’t dream.

Posttraumatic stress syndrome. Or PTSS. That’s what they called it, anyway. They tried everything they could think of to help me. Drugs. Therapy. A week by a big fancy pool in Dubai. None of it worked. I still couldn’t sleep.

So, in the end, they sent me home, thinking maybe I’d get better there, once everything was back to normal again.

The problem with that was, when I got home? Everything wasn’t back to normal again. Everything was different.

I guess that’s not fair. I guess what it was, was thatI was different. Not everyone else. I mean, you see stuff like that—kids screaming at you not to take their father, things blowing up…peopleblowing up—and you’re only seventeen years old, or whatever—hey, even if you’re forty—it makes it hard just to come back home a year later, and, like…do what? Go to the mall? Get a pedicure? WatchSpongeBob SquarePants ?

Please.

But I couldn’t go back to doing what I’d been doing, either. I mean, for the FBI. I couldn’t findmyself , let alone anyone else. Because I wasn’t “Lightning Girl” anymore.

What I was, I was discovering slowly, was something I hadn’t been for a long time:

I was normal.

As normal as a girl like me CAN be, anyway. I mean, I CHOOSE to wear my hair almost as short as some of the marines I worked with.

And I will admit to having a certain affection for hogs. The motorcycle kind. Not the roll-around-in-mud kind.

And I will admit, my idea of a fun day has never been to yak on the phone or instant message my friends, then go see a fun romantic comedy. For one thing, I only have one, maybe two friends. And for another, I like movies where things blow up.