Words still aren't coming. Why the fuck can't he say anything?

But words have never been as easy for Curtis as action, anyway. Almost before she's finished talking, Curtis crosses the room in a few quick strides and sweeps her into as tight a hug as he can manage with his one arm, face buried against her shoulder.

Obligation, gift, honor, whatever the fuck it all means -- despite the way he grumbled about front-sectioners and their bullshit in private with Edgar, he knows this is a big damn deal. And he can't even figure out how to say thanks for it.

(A war wound, she called his missing arm once. Worthy of its own metal. She gets it, even if she hasn't gotten the whole story yet.)