Page 92 of Returned Mail

That's the soonest I can get there. Twenty-seven hours of not knowing. Twenty-seven hours of imagining every possible version of him dying before I arrive.

I stop thinking and just give them my credit card information as I walk out the door. I don't even remember locking it behind me.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Mia

The first person I call the minute I get a chance is my mother. I don't even know why. Maybe because I'm panicking. Maybe because some small part of me still believes mothers are supposed to know what to do when the world falls apart.

She answers on the third ring. “Mia?”

“Hi, Mom.”

The second she hears my voice, she knows something is wrong. “Mia, what happened?”

My grip tightens around the phone. “I'm at the airport.”

A pause. “Why, what happened?”

I swallow hard and take a deep breath. “Mom, I need you to listen before you say anything.”

The silence on the other end immediately tells me that's exactly what she's not going to do. “Mia⁠—”

“Please.”

“Okay.”

I look out at the terminal. There are people walking, talking to each other, dragging their suitcases. Living normal lives while mine feels like it's splitting apart. “So, the soldier—” My mother's sigh is immediate. The soldier. As if George doesn't even have a name. As if saying his name would somehow make this worse.

“What about him?”

I close my eyes. “He’s injured.”

The silence stretches. “Injured how?”

I pull the folded notice from my pocket. My hands are still shaking. “I don’t know. I mean the notice says severe injuries.” The words sound unreal. Like I'm reading someone else's story. “Multiple internal trauma, something like that.” My voice cracks. I can’t even read the fucking paper. “Mom, they don't know if he's going to make it.”

The silence that follows feels different.

“Oh, honey.” She says, sounding really worried.

Tears immediately sting my eyes. “He has nobody.” The words tumble out. “He doesn't have family.” My mother doesn't respond. I continue anyway. “They sent the notice to the apartment because there wasn't anyone to send it to.”

“Mia.”

“I have to go.”

The second I say it, I hear her inhale sharply. “Mia, no.”

The certainty in her voice startles me. I blink. “What do you mean no?”

“I mean exactly that. No.” The terminal suddenly feels louder, brighter, way more overwhelming than before. “You are talking about flying across the world for a man you've never met.”

My throat tightens. “I know, Mom, but⁠—”

“No.” Her voice rises. “I don't think you do, Mia.” I look away from the crowd. Because part of me knows she's right, and I hate it. “You exchanged letters. That’s it. You don’t know this person.” The words aren't cruel. They're true, which is worse. “You don't know him.” She repeats.

“I do know him.”