Page 163 of The Sound of Him

It suddenly feels like I’m disconnected from my body as I move to the top drawer of my desk and take out the photograph I’d hoped like hell would one day be on my survivor board. I meet Travis’s eyes and hand it over, watching as he hands it to Carter.

Carter and Casey exchange a look before moving toward the survivor corkboard that still has a little room on it. I want to rush them. I want to tell them to get the fuck out because I’m losing it. I have been hanging by the same thin string for what feels like a lifetime and it’s going to snap. Within a handful of breaths, it’s going to fucking snap.

They need a thumbtack for the picture. I see the moment they realize it.

My hand shakes as I fumble for one and hand it over. I think I’m smiling. I’m really hoping I’m smiling.

I think as long as I keep smiling, no one will be able to tell that I’m not okay.

I’m not okay at all.

Carter pins the photograph up.

Casey whispers, “Bad guys lose in the end. They always fucking lose in the end. You just have to wait long enough.”

Carter takes Casey’s hand and says, “We win. We fucking win.”

And maybe they did.

It’s up to each of them now.

It’s up to each of us.

It’s up to me.

We’re all stuck as survivors for the rest of our lives. It doesn’t have to define us, but it’s something we’ll never be able to escape either. It’s adhesive. It has sunken into our skin and bones and souls.

Every day we wake up, every day we choose to survive, is a day where we’ve won.

I just really hope they never lose their will to keep fighting for that. I hope they never crumble. Never turn to dust.

Travis says something to me. I blink and look at him, my brain slow, sticky. The words make it through. Enough of them, at least. He wants updates. I can do that. I can do updates. Keaton will be sending me them anyway.

I… think I nod.

I blink and they’re all gone, then.

I waver on my feet and look over at the screens again. I zero in on Keaton’s. He’s gently brushing Elliot’s hair off of his forehead, his own head dipped low. He’s likely talking to him. Keaton was always good at that - knowing what to say when someone’s world is falling apart.For everyone but himself, he’s excellent at being a port in the storm. I can’t hear him now that he’s no longer with the lead agent. I could switch to his audio easily. I don’t.

I don’t know how long I stand there.

“There’s a party.”

I jerk and turn. The room spins. Everything is just a blur of colors for a minute, the palm of my hand getting scraped up as I grab for the corner of my desk to steady myself.

Bryce is standing in the doorway with a beer in one hand and a cup of something clear in the other. He holds out the beer to me. It’s the label I like, not that I drink often. In fact, I’ve probably only indulged two or three times since we’ve all been here. It occurs to me, as I robotically reach out for the bottle, that Bryce would make an excellent operative.

For a moment, we both hold onto the bottle, his fingertips touching mine. The bottle is cold. Wet.

“You’re here,” he tells me. “You’re right here. With me. With us. Safe.”

I try to swallow, nearly choking on the lump in my throat. “Am I?”

He tilts his head a little. “Yeah. I promise. I’ll believe it for you, huh?”

All I can manage is a huffed laugh and a choked, “Thank you.”

He lets go of the beer and steps back before his eyes drift over my shoulder. I know he’s looking at the screens. I don’t look with him. “An agent went with him?”