Текст книги "A Lover's Lament "
Автор книги: K. L. Grayson
Соавторы: B. T. Urruela
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 25 страниц)
Clutching at my stomach, my shoulders curl inward, heaving as my body expels three months worth of grief, pain, anger and guilt. “Oh, God,” I moan, slipping my hands in my hair, wrapping them around the windblown strands. Slow and steady, my body rocks back and forth as my mind replays all the times I’ve taken my emotions out on my family. I’ve ignored them, shut them out and refused their comfort and love. I’ve said hateful things in fits of anger and sorrow … things that I can’t ever take back. I tug roughly on my hair, needing to feel some sort of physical pain in exchange for all the pain that I’ve caused. My breath hitches when I suck in a deep breath and another round of sobs wrack my body.
Lifting my head out of my hands, I tilt my tear-streaked face up to the sky. Raw, nervous energy courses through me and I push to my feet, needing to move somewhere—anywhere. Walking toward Mac, I grab onto his reins and lead him toward the creek. “What is wrong with me?” I mumble, my eyes searching the clouds for some hidden answer. “I don’t want to do this anymore.” My chin trembles and I swipe away the tears running down my face, but they keep coming and I eventually give up.
Minutes tick by, or maybe hours, but the sobs finally subside. I’m exhausted—beyond exhausted—and already regretting the decision to pick up an extra shift at work tonight. Every muscle in my body aches, and I feel as though I could crawl in bed and sleep for hours on end. I take a deep, cleansing breath and blow it out slowly, letting everything from Devin’s letter sink in.
I have absolutely no idea why his letter hit me the way that it has. His words are merely a different version of the same thing everyone else has been trying to tell me, but they feel different. Or maybe it’s just because it’s Devin. There’s a reason he was my best friend for so long. He was the first person I gave my heart and body to, and maybe that’s the reason I haven’t been able to shake this unmistakable connection to him—even after ten years.
There’s also a reason his name was on that pen pal list. I’ve been treading water in a choppy sea of guilt and anger, and he just inadvertently threw me a lifeline. If it were anyone else, I’m not sure it would’ve made the same impact. So, without thinking twice, I make the decision to grab on to that lifeline he tossed me, and I’m going to hold on to it with every ounce of strength I have left.
Something nudges my shoulder, pulling me from my thoughts, and I turn around and come face-to-face with Mac. Using his nose, he frisks my shirt for treats and I laugh, patting him gently on the neck. “Sorry, big guy. There’s nothing in there for you.” He lets out a soft huff before dropping his head to graze on the grass. My eyes drift to my bag that is propped up against the tree, and I notice that Devin’s letter is exactly where I dropped it. “There’s one more thing I need to do before we go, Mac.” I give him one last quick rubdown on the head and then make my way to the tree.
Sitting down cross-legged, I grab the letter and read over it once more. This time, however, my heart feels lighter and I can’t help but grin as different parts of the letter begin to stand out.
You know I loved you.
Those moments we spent together are the best memories I have.
Devin’s words slice through me, leaving me feeling more open and vulnerable than I’ve felt in a very long time. He has the power to hurt me again. How is it possible to feel such a strong connection with someone I haven’t even talked to in a decade? I mean, seriously, he treated me like shit, and yet after a very simple apology, I’m dying to reconnect, dying to tell him everything. That should scare the hell out of me, but it doesn’t.
I have no idea who this man is anymore. Sure, I know the boy he used to be, but I have no idea what type of person he’s turned into. What happened after he left Tennessee? What was his life like in Pennsylvania? Did he meet someone else and fall in love? Did he go to college, and if not, why?
Sure he touched on some of those questions in his letter, but the woman in me—the woman who clearly still harbors some sort of feelings toward her first love—wants details. And lots of them.
A slow smile spreads across my face, and when I take a deep breath, I have an unexpected release of tension. There is no doubt in my mind that a higher power is at work here, and I smirk at the thought that I could very well have my dad to thank for this. Shaking my head, I close my eyes. It would be easy to hold on to my resentment and anger toward Devin, but when I look back on our friendship and all the things we’ve been through, I’m grateful to be given a second chance.
I’m not sure why, and maybe it’s foolish of me, but I have a feeling deep in my bones that I can trust him. A tiny voice pops in my head telling me I shouldn’t be feeling this way after everything that happened with Wyatt this morning—especially considering both of our pasts with Devin—but I push it aside.
The need to write Devin back grows with each passing second, so I grab my notepad and pen from my bag, intent on doing just that. He needs to know that I may have lost so much of who I used to be, but one thing hasn’t changed—my ability to forgive. Now, I may not be able to forgive Andrew Drexler, but Devin is a completely different story. I want him to know that the words I wrote, although true at the time, were written out of anger and confusion, but that his words have touched me. The process may be slow, but I will make things right with my family and with Devin.
So as my pen hits the paper, I open up the deepest part of me and let it all out, hoping against hope that I hear back from him again.
“Lover, You Should Have Come Over” – Jeff Buckley
I WAKE BEFORE THE SUN has checked in for the day and scan the tent, noting my men still sleeping heavily. My morning ritual, at least the days I have time to do it, requires a bit of privacy, and I make certain I have it before I begin. Most of these clowns will just jerk it from their cots in the middle of the night with the rest of us passed out around them. There’s always been something odd about that to me. On a regular basis, I've woken up to the sounds of heavy breathing and skin slapping skin, and it pisses me the fuck off. If I’m not dog-tired, they’ll get a boot heaved in their direction, aimed straight for the dick and with the express purpose of putting them out of business for a while.
No, jackin’ the beanstalk in public isn’t for me. Unfortunately, that leaves only one other place to do it—the Drop Zone. Porta-shitters, as we like to call them, sit for weeks without being emptied and capture every bit of the sun’s heat. It’s like a fucking greenhouse in there, and one breath in that motherfucker while beating off and your dick is in full retreat.
So there’s a trick to doing this just right; you have to prep him first. You get him up and going, and then you quickly finish in the shitter. For most of these guys, the bikini-clad chicks above their cots or the porno mags stashed in their bags are a necessity for a proper jerk-off, but I'm an imaginative guy. I close my eyes and my mind becomes like a time machine of fuck. Marilyn Monroe in Some Like it Hot ... bam! … cum everywhere. Farrah Fawcett in her iconic red swimsuit bent over the counter... set the time machine and go.
This time my mind goes for none other than Jackie O. She’s spread-eagle, with my tongue lightly flicking her throbbing clit while she's begging for my dick. And, of course, I’m making her call me Mr. President. I laugh at the last thought but notice it's at least gotten the job started. Since my dick is half-mast and ticking its way to full form, I slink my way to the tent’s entrance.
Stepping out, I’m met by the sun creeping softly over the tops of the barriers, and I hurry toward the porta-shitters, positioned just past the Humvees in front of the eastern wall. This two-hundred-yard walk is the most important part of the process. You have to walk with speed but not urgency, in hopes that you don't attract attention from the few others also awake—all while the imagined porn still reels in your head.
I manage to make it into the shitter undetected and quickly go to work on my shaft while my left hand pinches my nose like a vise and my eyes squeeze tightly shut. Only this time it isn’t someone famous that I picture. It’s Katie.
Even as early as it is, the Drop Zone is like a sauna, and beads of sweat collect on my forehead. I try desperately to hold in my breath as the seconds tick down. Just as my lungs begin to demand air and my body stiffens, I toss my head back with a stifled groan. My body recovers from its high much quicker in this setting, but at least the job is done. Two weeks of combat stress gone, just like that.
I take in a deep breath of the noxious air and regret it instantly. Opening my eyes, I turn to exit but notice that I've unloaded all over the toilet seat. Fuck! Most of these assholes would just leave it, but I think of how pissed I’d be walking in on a jizz-covered seat so I wad up some toilet paper and wipe away the evidence. When I’m done, I toss the wad into the pit and thrust myself through the door, relieved to feel the fresh air again.
Just as I step out, I see Navas exiting the crapper beside me. At first I say nothing, caught off-guard by his sudden appearance and feeling awkward having just shot off a load a foot beside him. He has a curious smirk on his face as he eyeballs the sweat now dripping down my forehead. His gaze drops and he catches sight of my hands fumbling with my belt; his smirk turns into a full-blown grin. He totally knows.
“H-h-hey,” I stammer. “What are you doing up, man?” I add, composing myself a little.
“What’s up, buddy?” The way he says it and the grin planted on his face lets me know he’s got me figured out. “Little bit sweaty, huh? Were you battlin’ a shit or beatin’ your dick?”
“Monster shit, bro. You know how that goes. A week of built-up MREs and the turds are like grappling hooks. What are you doing up this early?” I repeat, hoping to change the subject as we slowly make our way back to the tent.
“Chatting with the niños. … you know my mom. She’ll only let me talk to them once a week. Says it’s just too hard on them otherwise, and with the ten-hour time difference, this is the best time to do it.”
“And at least you’re not having to fight anyone over the phone,” I say as we reach the tent. I motion toward the smoke pit. “You want a cig?”
“No, man, I’m good, but I’ll chill with you.” We both take a seat as I spark up the cancer stick. Fuck this place for getting me hooked on these things. I hate them, but they’re just the buzz I need before and after these long-ass days.
Navas peers into the distance, appearing to be deep in thought, and continues. “Why the fuck they gotta have one phone and one computer for an entire combat outpost is beyond me. Even at this hour, I still had to wait for Dickfuck to get done talking to his wife. Motherfucker spent like two hours in there, and at one point I could hear his ass getting off, asking her to twist his nipples and shit.”
I think to my own release in the shitter moments earlier and chuckle to myself. Put a man in combat—or prison, or a fucking office with a view, it doesn’t matter—and he will eventually find his dick in his hand.
I look harder at Navas, who still seems lost in thought. “How are the kids?” I ask.
“You know, they miss me. It’s weird because it’s like, what do I talk to them about? They ask me what Daddy’s doing over here and I can never find the right words to say … nothing that a four and six-year-old would understand anyway. So I tell them we’re over here helping people.” He stops and runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve never felt like more of a liar,” he says, exhaling loudly, and I can see the pain in his eyes. “And then my mom gets on with her usual rant. She thinks I chose war over my kids, and she uses every chance she gets to remind me of it.”
“That’s fucked up. Seems like there’s not much good that can come of that.” I’m not sure what else to say. I haven’t spoken to my mother in years. Though she was physically there growing up, she left right along with my father all those years back.
“Yeah, that’s just who she is. Mexican women, man, what can you do?” He looks over to me as I light another cigarette. “You know that shit’s gonna kill ya, right?”
“Not before this place does.” I laugh, but immediately feel uneasy as I often see myself not making it out of here alive. Call it a premonition or what have you, but it feels so fucking real. I can even sense Jax standing just beside me, his hand resting on my shoulder as if waiting for me to join him. I’m coming, buddy. I’m coming.
I fight the thought away, and it takes everything I have to do so. Navas notices and pats me on the shoulder. “You alright, brother? Where’d you just go, man?” Fuck! I need a distraction…
I point to Navas’s cargo pocket where I know a cigar rests, impatiently waiting to be smoked after mission. “You think those things won’t kill you?” I send him a big, plastic smile, so mastered you’d think I was Beaver-fucking-Cleaver.
“Fuck it, man. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.” He knows me well enough to read through the bullshit, but he also knows, as his squad leader, I’m not going to be the one crying like a little bitch. That’s all Lieutenant Dixon, and I’d really like to keep it that way. “The way it’s going, if I do make it back, I’ll be walking dead,” he says, smiling.
“What do you mean?” I look at him curiously but carefully, so as not to seem judgmental.
“I don’t know. It’s weird,” he says, “but do you think we’ll ever learn to feel again? After all this, I mean.” I know exactly what he’s talking about, but I wait for him to continue. Navas isn’t always so generous with his emotions, and I make certain I take advantage of the times that he is. It’s obvious he’s hurting, and it seems to get worse with each phone call home.
“It’s like all this death and destruction, losing buddies, and the kids growing up without me, I’ve lost my sense of feeling. I don’t hurt. I don’t ache for home. I just exist. I don’t feel like I have control anymore. But I need this.” He emphasizes those last words, and I know it’s because he’s afraid of coming off too soft in front of me.
“I need this too, man. But as much as I wish I could, I can’t empathize with you. I don’t have anything back home. I don’t have anyone that needs me. You ... you have your babies, man. Kids that need their father.” I stop and look Navas in the eyes. He’s stooped over in his seat as if the weight of the world is resting squarely on his shoulders, but he perks up when I pause as if asking me to continue. I hesitate for a moment but then I do. “I feel for you, man. I feel for your family. For me, this all kind of seems normal now. I get anxious when I'm stateside. Too much time to think… and wonder. I think when that day comes and we finally hang up our boots, we’ll look in the mirror and not recognize who’s staring back. And I have a feeling we’re going to miss this. We will miss the hell out of it.”
"I couldn’t agree with you more.” He nods, looking relieved that someone understands. “I think that’s a big reason I’m back here. Besides being with you guys, I just didn't feel right back home. Like I was there for my kids, but I wasn't really there, ya know? Growing up, this was all I ever wanted to do. Now, I just don't know. It's like it's changed me. Fuck … it's too early for this shit, huh?" He shoots a forced smirk my way, but the sadness in his eyes is too prominent.
"Never too early, my friend. I'm here anytime you need to shoot the shit. The kids, man, they'll adapt. Eventually, they’ll be old enough to understand the meaning behind all of this. As for us, I can only hope that when the last shots are fired, we are able to cope with what we’ve seen and done, and come back stronger. The Army way, right?" I let out a sarcastic laugh as I rise to my feet, flicking the cigarette butt into the fire pit. Navas doesn't move, just continues to stare into nothing.
I rest a hand on his shoulder. "We have another five months to figure it all out. Don't let it get to you too much. Let's get through this shit and get these guys home safe, huh?"
Navas rises to his feet and faces me, and for a brief moment he embraces me before letting go and making his way toward the tent. There is no love like that of your brothers-in-arms.
"Let’s get some fuckin’ chow," he says, slipping through the tent’s entrance. I follow him in and scan the cots. Some of the guys are fork-deep in their MREs, while others are still getting their asses out of bed. I dig through a box of MREs at the front of the tent.
Chicken. Chicken. Chicken. I'm so fucking sick of chicken. "Damn it, you fuckers, this is a brand new box. Who the fuck took my tortellini?" As I say this, I see Elkins plop the pasta into his mouth with a wide smile.
"I hope you choke on it, Elkins. You know I’ve got infinite dibs on the tortellini.” I smile at him then grab two of the chicken MREs. I toss one to Navas and tear open the other. We take a seat on our cots, one beside the other, and dig in.
"Sarge, you know those officer fucks clear out the good ones before they give us the box, right?" Elkins’ words come out slightly distorted as he’s still working on a mouthful of my tortellini.
“Enunciate, Elkins, I can’t understand you with that dick in your mouth.” I lock my eyes onto Elkins with eyebrows furrowed as I fork a piece of dry chicken breast into my mouth.
Navas pulls my attention from Elkins by tossing a bag of peanut butter M&Ms at my back. In the world of MREs, peanut butter M&Ms are like gold. They are coveted and often bartered. I quickly forget about how awful the chicken tastes.
"That reminds me, when Dixon got done in the Comm Center, he told me to tell you there’s a meeting at 0700. Some kinda mission briefing or something," Navas says.
I eyeball my watch. 0650. Damn it. I shovel the remaining chicken into my mouth, retrieve my notepad and pen, and begin to head out, saluting Navas with the bag of M&Ms before departing.
The room is packed tight. The other squad leaders and I stand at the back against the wall. Lieutenant Dixon and the three other platoon leaders take up seating at two tables that separate us from the front of the room. On the front wall, there’s a large map of Baghdad with our area of operations marked boldly in red. Our company commander, Captain Kendricks, stands before us. He’s a Mr. Clean clone and is nearly as large as the map itself. Our brigade commander, Colonel Birch, is beside him, which tells me this is serious. He’s based out of the Green Zone and only comes here for the most important briefings. He's an extremely short man and looks like a midget standing next to Captain Kendricks, but he's stocky with a spark-plug personality. He's old-school Army and therefore barks his words rather than speaks them.
He starts off with his usual introduction, the whole ‘I’m proud of you’ and ‘keep up the good work’ bullshit, but my mind takes off after that. I think about Katie and the letter I sent. I know the military mail system sucks, but damn, does it have to take this long? I’ve even checked my email twice a day every day for a week straight, hoping to hear from her—but no such luck. I subtly typed my email address in below my name on my last letter hoping she’d see it, but I’m guessing that she didn’t, or she just didn’t want to write back. With each day that passes, I'm a little more convinced of it.
I guess her therapy in regards to me is already complete. She took out her anger and told me how she feels. What more can I expect after what I’ve done to her? And I do want her to feel better, but I just hope she has more to get out. I’ll take cuss words and insults from her over silence any day.
I can’t shake the feeling of seeing her name and reading her words again. It takes me back to middle school, and unbelievably, her handwriting is just the same. So beautiful and flawless you’d think it was fake. We’d pass notes back and forth, my chicken scratch and her artwork, and we’d do it all day long. By the time we caught the bus home, we had filled up five sheets, front and back. I still have every last one, since I always insisted on keeping them. She fought me every time, but I always won. The nights out here when I’m hurting so badly I’d rather die than bear the pain, I read those notes and can feel her there beside me, giggling as I throw paper airplanes at Wyatt’s head.
A tear rolls down my cheek, catching me off-guard, and I quickly wipe it with my hand before anyone can see. Almost immediately, I receive a quick jab in the ribs from Sergeant Adams, who is standing beside me. “Wake the fuck up, dude. Kendricks is looking over here,” Adams whispers, which for a New Yorker comes out more like a yell. Dixon looks back at us, face red, and he jerks his head toward the front of the room. I roll my eyes at Adams and direct my attention to the front.
"We have orders to make a major offensive push," Colonel Birch says with his laser pointer hovering over the map. He circles it around a specific area. “Intelligence we’ve gathered is telling us that this area of Saidiyah has several large weapons caches and roadside bomb manufacturing facilities. For the next two weeks—at least—infantry units out of Forward Operating Base Falcon will be conducting massive door-to-door raids throughout this entire neighborhood. We will be going around the clock, twenty-four hours a day with two units from 1st Armored Division and 101st Airborne, who are leading up the raid and defense efforts. They need us to serve as their quick reaction force. If shit goes down, we’re there to assist.” He clears his throat and drops the laser pointer on the table.
“We only have your platoon to execute this specific mission since the rest of the company needs to continue with the mission at hand, so we need you guys to suck it up for the next few weeks. It’s going to be some long hours, but this is pretty damn important, so keep your heads on straight. I’m going to leave you with Captain Kendricks here, and he can let you know how the rotations will go. Stay strong, gentlemen, we’re halfway through.”
He nods to Captain Kendricks and heads out of the room as fast as his short legs can take him. I can’t help but smirk.
Captain Kendricks waits for the colonel to exit before addressing us. “As Colonel Birch stated, this is a major task for such a small contingent, so hours will be long. Staff Sergeant Richards and Staff Sergeant Baker, being that you’re both higher ranking and more experienced, we will have you cover the night shift … 8 p.m. to 8 a.m. It’s more likely that if shit is gonna go down, it’s going down at night.”
Richards and Baker nod toward Captain Kendricks and he continues, shifting his focus to us. “Clay and Adams, that means you guys are on first shift. We need you to grab your guys, divvy them up between three trucks, and be on your way. Coordinates, unit call signs, and all that shit will be provided to you by your platoon leaders.”
“Hooah, Sir,” Adams and I say in unison as Captain Kendricks turns his attention back to the platoon leaders.
“PLs do not need to take part in these missions, but I will leave it to your discretion. Those that don’t will be here in HQ with me. I need you all to stay behind for a second so we can go over the details. The rest of you can head out. Are there any questions? No? Good! Let’s get to work.”
The four of us pile out of the room as the captain continues his discussion with the platoon leaders. “Hey, Clay, you pussies enjoy your twelve hours twiddling your dicks in the sun. Baker and I will worry about doing some real infantry shit.” I look back and see Richards with a shit-eating grin on his face. His thick, red pornstache straddles his upper lip like a saddle. Baker juts his chin out and smirks at me.
I turn back around without saying a thing, but Adams whips his head back toward them. “Oh, fuck you, Richards, we don’t speak ginger. Baker, can you please translate for the hellspawn?” Adams chuckles and looks to see if I am too, which of course I am. A good ginger joke goes a long way with me. But I’m also partly laughing at Adams’ constant need for affirmation. I like the guy, but fucking sh—
“Shit, you think the New York garbage that comes out of your mouth is any better? You guys stink of envy,” Baker snaps at Adams as they reach the door.
I try not to give a shit about what they’re saying, but they’re right. Here in beautiful Baghdad, they only really like to come out and play at night. The days are left to roadside bombs and excessive sweating. I’m about to say something, but I cut myself off because it’s just not worth it. My focus is Katie and the possibility of an email sitting in my inbox. How fucking amazing would it be to hear from her. Just then, a voice catches my attention.
“Yo, Clay!” Sergeant Tavares, our radio operator, calls from the communications room. The buzz of radio chatter plays like an orchestra behind him. “Come here for a second.”
I turn and approach him as the others exit the building. I notice a letter in his hand and my heart leaps into my throat. I try to restrain my excitement, but a heavy buzz sits just under the skin. Maybe it’s not even mine.
He hands it to me. “This came in with the mail shipment last night, and I forgot to drop it off to you.” I snatch it from his hand and narrow my gaze before flipping it over.
Katie Devora.
A smile cracks my face. “Thanks, dude.”
I don’t even look at him. Keeping my eyes locked onto the letter, I turn and quickly make my way toward the exit. Before I can get the door open, the shrill voice of Lieutenant Dixon calls out from the conference room. “Clay, come here real quick. We need to go over this shit.”
I slowly turn and fight the desire to strangle him right then and there. He holds up a notepad with a page full of writing and jams a finger into it. My shoulders drop a bit, as I know what’s about to come, and I have to force my eyes not to roll as I walk toward him, reluctantly slipping the letter into my cargo pocket.
My temples beat like drums as I clench my teeth tightly together, withholding all words because the only ones I want to use have four letters. We’re cruising down the road with Thomas at the wheel, Navas in the turret hatch, me in the passenger seat, and our interpreter, “Mike,” seated behind me.
Twenty-five fucking minutes Dixon blabbered on. He has a unique way of making what should take five minutes last a lifetime, and I was too busy getting the squad together afterward to read Katie’s letter. If we were the first vehicle in the convoy and not the third, it’s likely we’d end up in the Euphrates River because no way my mind is focused enough to navigate. I can only think of Katie and the letter that’s currently burning a hole through my pocket.
A buzz over the radio headset draws my attention. “Hey, Sergeant, it looks like Adams’ trucks are falling back. Do you want me to have the lead vehicle slow down?” Navas asks.
“No, they’re okay. They know where we’re going. They’ll be covering for 101st at the southern end of the target area anyway. We’ve got the northern end, so they’ll be cutting out of here shortly.”
I turn my attention to the navigation. It’s loaded with little icons representing all of the coalition vehicles. The raid and defense forces have already positioned themselves around the neighborhood, and we are just a few miles away.
I watch as Sergeant Adams’ convoy pulls off the highway. “Yup, there they go. A mile or so up the road and we’re there.” I shift my gaze to Thomas, who has a distant stare, his body sagging in the driver’s seat.
“Thomas, you awake, guy?” He snaps to attention like a teenager caught sleeping in class and quickly nods his head. “Sure doesn’t seem like it. You get okay sleep last night?”
I know he didn’t. I woke up several times throughout the night, as I often do, and I found him reading with a flashlight or just lying there, staring at the tent’s interior. Since the grisly scene at the checkpoint, he just hasn’t been the same. I haven’t been able to get him to talk either, which isn’t normal for him. He’ll usually at least open up to me.
“Slept like a baby, Sarge,” he lies.
“Alright, I’ll take your word for it.” I point toward a bushel of palms just outside our target neighborhood. “Park under those trees over there. Face that clearing.”
Thomas does as ordered while our other two Humvees station themselves a hundred yards on either side of us in their own defensive positions. The sun is shining brightly overhead, but the outstretched leaves of the palms will keep our vehicle well shaded. A crisp morning breeze funnels down through the turret hatch and teases my face.
Curious bystanders of all ages stand in the middle of the dirt roads that connect the neighborhood, watching infantry squads work. The neighborhood bustles with activity as the troops search homes for weapons, artillery rounds, roadside bombs and insurgents ready for a fight. We can't see much of it from our positions since half walls close off most of the neighborhood, with only a few roads leaving room for visibility. But we can hear American forces calling out orders loudly and an orchestra of Arabic chatter.
I radio Sergeant Adams to ensure his squad has taken up their own positions and then check in with the raid contingent’s leadership. Thomas has his head resting against the steering wheel, already fast asleep, and Navas’s hand is burrowing deep inside a bag of pork rinds.
Ensuring first that Navas can’t see me, I slip the envelope from my cargo pocket and quickly open it.
The first thing I notice—and it’s almost immediately—is her email at the very bottom of the letter. My cheeks hurt from the smile that owns my face. Looks like I’ll be spending a hell of a lot more time at the Comm Center.
