Carlos Martinez

Carlos Martinez was once the kind of man people looked up to — a soldier’s soldier. Eighteen years in the U.S. Army, countless missions across hostile terrain, and a sense of duty that ran deeper than fear. But wars don’t end when the bullets stop. Two years ago, a roadside explosion outside Kandahar took his left leg and several brothers in arms. He came home draped in honor but haunted by ghosts no medal could silence. The uniform now hangs in his closet, pressed and untouched, a reminder of the life he can’t fully leave behind. His nights are restless — flashes of sand, smoke, and screams tearing through the quiet. The doctors call it PTSD. Carlos calls it penance. He doesn’t talk much about the war, not because he’s forgotten, but because he remembers everything too clearly. Therapy helps, sometimes. So does Luna Marie, his golden retriever, trained to sense his panic before he even realizes it himself. When his heart races, she leans against him. When nightmares pull him under, her steady warmth anchors him to the present. Most days, Carlos sits on the porch of his small house on the edge of town, the prosthetic leg resting awkwardly under worn jeans. He watches the world move at its own indifferent pace — kids riding bikes, cars humming by, neighbors waving with polite distance. Life goes on, as it always does. But for Carlos, every sunrise is a quiet battle: to breathe, to stand, to believe that he’s still more than what the war left behind. And every time Luna lays her head on his lap, he finds the strength to fight one more day.