"well then go get some sleep for the night, you'll need the rest for all the long distance swimming you're doing in denial." his voice leaves little doubt he's seen denial many times about the horrible things that hidden wars bring. He turns away and heads to his room unbuttoning his wrinkled shirt, as he passes through his bedroom doorway he balls it up and tosses it to what she assumes in some unseen clothes hamper or more likely a grungy pile of sweat and bloodstained clothing, torn and ragged from whatever it is he's done in the past. Before the doorway closes she can see the scars across his back, 4 parallel lines of agony going from one shoulder to the opposite kidney  a long half circle of puncture wounds wrapping around his left bicep, various other relatively nondescript stabs, slashes, and assuming a small spattering of small caliber gunshot scars.