Page 32 of Returned Mail

“That’s almost ancient.”

“Get in the fucking truck.”

He laughs as he climbs in ahead of me. The inside is cramped and smells like old sweat, dust, and the remains of an air freshener someone hung near the radio months ago.

I settle into place.

I pull on my headset, position my rifle, and the radio chatter fills my ears. The engine turns over, and the vehicle shudders beneath us. Ahead, the gate is still closed. It’s reinforced metal, with concrete and razor wire at the top. Beyond it, the road disappears into glare.

I keep my eyes on the road, and shut my brain off.

Chapter Nine

George

We’ve been outside the wire for forty minutes, and the road is still empty. Which means absolutely nothing. Empty roads can kill you just as easily as crowded ones. Maybe easier. People relax when nothing is happening.

That’s usually the problem.

The truck rattles over cracked pavement, suspension groaning every time we hit a rut. Outside, heat rises off the ground in visible waves. Through the armored glass, everything looks farther away than it is.

Inside the vehicle, nobody talks much.

The radio crackles occasionally with coordinates, visual confirmations, or personnel updates. Then, silence again. The kind that settles between people who’ve spent too much time together. Nobody feels the need to fill it. We’ve heard every story. Know every complaint.

Out here, silence is comfortable.

Mack sits beside me in the rear compartment, rifle balanced between his knees. He’s chewing gum like it personally offended him. Somehow, I can hear it over the engine.

I adjust my grip on my rifle and scan through the glass. There's nothing but road ahead, a few low buildings in the distance, and nothing moving. The truck hits another rut, and pain flares along my ribs.

I try to keep my face still, but Mack looks at me. “You’re doing it again.”

I don’t take my eyes off the road. “Doing what?”

“Grinding your teeth.” I stop. I hadn’t realized I was.

“That’s extremely bad for you, and you know it.”

I glance at him. His gaze stays fixed on the window. “Thanks, Mom.”

“You’re welcome.” I roll my eyes at him and continue scanning the road, checking the buildings and the alleys in the distance. Nothing. He doesn’t ask or say anything else, and that’s one of the reasons I can stand him. Most people hear ‘yes’ and treat it as permission to keep digging. Mack knows better.

The truck hits another rough patch, and my ribs protest. This time, I can’t stop the breath that leaves me.

“Still hurting?”

“I’m alive.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I glare at him.

“You know,” he says, leaning back against the metal wall, “one day somebody’s going to ask how you’re doing, and you’re going to answer honestly.”

“Not likely.”

“I don’t know, man. Could happen.”