The Heroes, The Healing

After dinner, mother and son sit together outside Welsh's room in the group home, a large, white house with a small yard and a wraparound front porch. Welsh burns to leave, but he can't yet. His neck hasn't healed, and last night he exploded when a staff member tried to order him to bed. He felt ashamed afterward, unsure why he did it. Maybe it was the sleeping pills, maybe the brain injury. He unfastens his neck brace, demonstrating how in anger he hurled it across the room. He catches a whiff of the sweat that had soaked it during the stifling summer days.

"God, I've gotta wash this thing," he says, a little embarrassed. He is less the sergeant in his mother's presence, more the kid who loved cars and used to ditch school and circle town in a big Chevy Blazer. Lynne Welsh looks him over.

"I'm just glad it's him," she says. "The important thing is that Jason is Jason."

Jason smiles, lines breaking at the corners of his eyes, dispelling for a moment the boyishness.

"For the most part," he says.