Sarah smiled reassuringly at him before gesturing to the young man. “Would you introduce yourself?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Marine,she thought, just as he said, “I’m Lance Corporal Willem Ellis, of the 5th Marine Division.” He looked down at the prosthetics strapped to his knees. “Formerly of the 5th Marine Division.” He glanced back up at her, then dropped his gaze. “I was only in-country a little over two months when this happened, so I can’t say I saw much traumatizing action.”

“How ’bout when your mother found out you’d enlisted?” Sarah was surprised by the black-clad woman’s accent, a southern Virginia drawl that sounded more out of place up here in the North Country than her own clipped urban consonants.

Willem Ellis laughed at the woman’s remark. “Yeah, I guess that counts as combat. Or at least battle royal.”

“And you are…?”

The woman slouched in her seat. “Clare Fergusson.” There was a pause. Sarah made a go-on gesture. Clare Fergusson sighed. “Major in the Guard, 142nd Aviation Support. Stationed in Ramadi, Tikrit, and Kirkuk.” She took a long drink from her coffee cup. Nothing more seemed forthcoming.

“Aviation support?” Sarah said.

“She flies helicopters,” the brown-haired man said. Before Sarah could ask, he went on, “I’m Eric McCrea. I’m a sergeant. Also in the Guard.”

“Did you serve with Major Fergusson?”

“No.” His gaze slid away from her and came to rest on the doctor. His lip curled up in what might have been a sneer. “I’m an MP.”

“What were you assigned to?” the young woman demanded. “Were you on base patrol? At the Green Zone?”

His lips thinned. “I was on prisoner detail. Camp Bucca.”

Sarah kept herself from reacting, but the rest of the group stared. They had all seen the pictures.

“That figures.” The young woman folded her arms over her generous chest.