Page 74 of Returned Mail

But somewhere between the missions, the waiting, the sand, the noise, and the quiet, Mia's letters become the one thing that helps me measure it. I don't tell her that. I’m not that stupid, but it's true.

By now, every time I receive an envelope, I can identify how she is feeling just by seeing the way my name is slightly tilted to one side. I know her handwriting looks a little rushed when she's excited. I also know that it looks cleaner when she's trying to sound more composed than she is.

Which is a problem, a manageable one for now. But a problem nonetheless.

Her latest letter finds me after a long day and a longer briefing. I open it sitting on the edge of my bunk, boots still on, dust still stuck to my skin.

George,

Today I tried to cook something decent and ended up with a pan of what I can only describe as moral failure.

If you ever wondered what crime smells like, it's burnt garlic and overconfidence.

I snort, and Mack looks over from his bunk. “Your accountant again?”

I don't look up. “Shut up.”

“That's a yes.”

“She's not my accountant.”

“Yeah, I got that when you smiled at the paper.” I fold the letter halfway, mostly to stop him from reading over my shoulder. Mack grins. “Secret girlfriend?”

“No.” Shit, that was too fast, too sharp even for me. His eyebrows lift. “She's a friend,” I add. The word sits strangely.

Well, she is a friend. I think.

Mack hums like the asshole he is, and goes back to whatever he's doing. I read the rest of her letter after he leaves. She tells me about burning garlic, about her boss using the phrase ‘circle back’ four times in one meeting, about standing at the window during a storm and threatening it exactly the way I told her to. It shouldn't mean as much as it does.

I start writing back that night.

Mia,

I've eaten things in the field that probably weren't food. Burnt garlic sounds ambitious compared to some of my meals.

There are several things I could write next. Something like, I'd eat anything you made, or I wish I'd been there to see it, or even I wish I knew what your kitchen sounds like when you're moving around in it. No. The hell not. I scratch the last thought out before it reaches the page.

Overconfidence is where most bad decisions start, so at least you're consistent with the rest of humanity.

I stare at the sentence…yeah, that’s better.

It’s ridiculous, casual, and funny.

The weeks start folding into each other.

There are more missions now, which means more dust and more nights when the only light comes from my headlamp as I read the letters of a woman I also write to, while being thousands of miles away.

Do you ever get scared?

Her question sits in the middle of the page like she tried to hide it between easier things. Before it, she wrote about buying the wrong kind of coffee creamer. After it, she wrote about Lyann sending her a meme that made her laugh so hard she spilled tea on herself.

But the question is there.

Not like scared-scared.

More like the kind that waits until the lights go off. I think everyone has a version of that. Mine shows up when the apartment gets too quiet.

I read that question three times.