Page 27 of Returned Mail

For the first time since this deployment started, combat doesn't feel like the thing I'm fighting.

The uncertainty does, the not knowing, the helplessness. I know how to survive danger. I've trained for it. I know how to assess threats, make decisions, execute plans. I know how to handle fear when it has a sound to it. Whether it’s gunfire, an incoming call, or the engines rolling.

I know what to do with that kind of fear, but this kind has nowhere to go.

I'm staring at Monica's letter. And I finally admit the thing I've been trying not to think about. I don't know what's happening to her. I don't know if she's okay, if she's angry, if she's done. And there's absolutely nothing I can do from here.

Nothing.

So I start writing letter twenty-four.

Monica,

Still haven't heard from you.

I stop and stare at the sentence. It looks too small for what it means. The words blur slightly. I blink hard and keep writing. Because maybe she'll never read it. Maybe every letter I've sent is sitting in some forgotten bin. Maybe they're all going into a void.

Or maybe they reached her.

For a long time, I don't move. I stare at the page, at her name, at the words Still haven't heard from you. Maybe she got every single one, and she just…

Chapter Eight

George

The generator sounds like it’s chewing gravel.

It rattles against the concrete wall, coughing out hot air that smells like burned dust and old fuel. The light over my head flickers every few seconds like it’s considering giving up. Trust me, I get it.

I sit on the edge of my bunk, boots planted on the floor, helmet at my feet, sweat rolling down my spine. The air in here doesn’t move. It just sits there, thick and stale, clinging to everything. The gear, the sheets, even my skin.

My T-shirt is damp with sweat and darker near my ribs. I lift the hem and wince. The bruise from last week’s run is an ugly, spreading mess. Deep purple and yellow now, green around the edges.

“I told you it’d look worse today,” Jackson says from the bunk across from me.

I let the shirt fall.

“That’s a real pretty one, Sarge. You should take a selfie.” Mack grins from a few feet away. He’s been giving me shit long enough to know exactly how far he can push before rank starts mattering.

“Fuck off.”

Around us, everyone looks tired.

Outside, something metal slams against something heavier. Somebody yells about comms. Farther off, I can barely make out the distant crack of gunfire. That’s background noise now. At least in our world.

This base felt bigger when I first arrived.

A whole contained universe of walls, guard towers, sandbags, satellite dishes, tents, and containers with numbers spray-painted crooked on the sides. It isn’t big. It’s crowded. Cramped. A bunch of human lives jammed into too little space, waiting for the next thing to happen.

Always waiting.

Sand gets everywhere. Inside my boots. In my sheets. Between my teeth. I don’t remember what it feels like to be completely clean anymore. My shoulder pulls with a dull ache when I reach beneath my pillow for my pen. The unfinished letter is still there, and so is the envelope.

MONICA HARRIS

Neat blue ink. The same apartment address I’ve written twenty-three times.

I pull out the page.