Page 84 of When the Smoke Clears

I salute him with a fry. He scowls like I’ve besmirched the uniform of the nation. “Worst soldier ever.”

When the door clicks shut, the house exhales. I tidy the counter, rinse the plates, then wipe a streak of ketchup from the villain board’s frame with my sleeve.

The domesticity of the moment is absurd and perfect; it’s also what I crave. Something simple. Something still.

I wander down the hall and pause in the master doorway. The slate-gray comforter is folded back the way I left it this morning; the pillow holds a shallow crescent, a dented moon.

His scent lingers—cedar and soap and something warmer that feels like memory. I slide between the sheets on his side—my side, tonight—and curl my legs up until I’m compact, contained.

Sleep reaches for me with careful hands. I must drift because the phone’s buzz startles me, a bright sound in a soft room. LUKE glows on the screen.

“Hello?” My voice is a rasp of cotton and dreams.

“Hi.” His tone is low, velvet over gravel. It threads down my spine and settles in the small, warm places.

“I’m in your bed,” I blurt.

“Mmm.” I hear the smile. “I like it when you do what I say.”

A laugh escapes me before I can cage it. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t.” He draws the words out lazily. “I’ll ration it. Special occasions.”

Warmth pools in my chest. “Did you eat?”

“Full liquids,” he says mournfully. “The pudding was the highlight.”

“That’s a good sign,” I say, slipping into nurse cadence. “Means you’re progressing.”

“Progressing toward real food and away from this IV pole.” He yawns, and the sound is so human and ordinary I want to cry. “I’m tired, Isla.”

“Of course you are.”

Silence stretches, sweet and easy, the kind that doesn’t demand payment.

“I wish I were there,” he murmurs at last, softer, as if the words are for the dark.

“Me too,” I say, the truth sliding out unadorned. It lands between us like a stone in still water—ripples, then quiet.

“Instead of flying,” he adds, and something tilts in his voice, a slant I recognize from hospital shifts when patients drift too far on pain meds.

“Flying?” I sit up, pulse pricking.

“Over the fields,” he says dreamily. “You’re there. You’re dancing.”

“Luke,” I say carefully, “did they give you something new?”

“No.” Barely a whisper. “But I can’t take care of everyone all the time. What about Eden? She needs me. She’s just a baby.”

My heart jackhammers. He’s not on narcotics that make him hallucinate—at least not enough to do this. Something else is wrong. “Luke, listen to me. Press the nurse call button. Now.”

“Not enough time,” he murmurs, drifting farther away.

“Luke.” I sharpen my voice, a command I only use when I have to. “Press the button.”

“I want more time, Isla,” he says, like a child hugging a toy in sleep.

Panic slices clean through the softness. “Luke! Button. Now.” I swing my legs out of bed and clutch the phone, heart pounding, staring into the dark.