Page 30 of Dozer

Those conversations had always felt like people standing outside a locked door, knocking over and over because they were uncomfortable with the fact that nobody was answering.

They wanted me to open it and tell them exactly what I needed, even when I didn’t know what it was myself. They wanted me to make my grief easier for them somehow. Take some of the burden and heaviness of it off their shoulders, by removing the awkwardness.

Dozer doesn't ask me to do any of that, instead he gives me a minute and simply sits with me while I process. Then, he gives me a job. It shouldn't feel like kindness, but somehow it does.

"He had a family?” I ask. The words come out before I can stop them. "Reyes. I don't know if he did. I don't know anything about him except that he died because we were on a road somebody knew we'd be on." My throat tightens. "And I keep thinking, if I'd caught the second position faster⁠—"

"You caught it in time to matter." His voice is flat but not exactly comforting. "You didn't miss it."

"I could've seen it sooner."

"You didn't."

"But—"

"You caught it." He looks directly at me. "That's not nothing."

I look away. "Feels like too little, too late. Feels like nothing."

"It's not nothing." The words settle between us.

I stare at him for a long moment. This man apparently thinks two sentences constitute a full emotional conversation, and maybe with anyone else I'd be annoyed. But I don't need him to say more.

I don't need him to make it better by telling me Reyes died doing something heroic. Promises that the people responsible will pay aren’t going to fix it, either. I know they will. I know Hunter will make sure of that. And telling me everything is going to be okay would be a lie, and I don’t respect people who lie to me.

I just need someone who understands that sometimes not okay is the most honest answer available.

"Okay," I say. “It’s not nothing.” And I mean it as more than agreement. I mean I believe you.

Dozer nods once, like that settles it. Then he reaches for the radio to talk to a team member. I watch him for a second longer than I should. There are people who make you feel safe because they tell you everything is going to be okay. Dozer makes me feel safe because he doesn't.

He makes me feel safe because he looks at the worst thing in the room and starts figuring out how to get everyone through it. That might be the most dangerous thing I've learned about him so far. Because I think I could get used to having someone around who assesses danger and then protects me from it.

"They knew our route," he says after ending the conversation he’s having. “It’s confirmed.”

I straighten. "That's not luck."

"No."

"There’s a leak and it had to happen somewhere between Hunter's office and that road,” I tell him.

He looks at me. "Until we know where it is, we can't trust standard channels."

My brain immediately clicks into place. This is the part I understand, it’s where I excel. I can look at the data, see the pattern and find out where the information moved from one person to another. People always think digital security is about computers. It isn't. It's about people.

Computers don't decide to betray you. People do.

"From here on out there will be no check-ins on the usual frequency," he continues. "No hotel bookings under real names. Nothing that puts us on a schedule somebody could predict twice."

"So we're improvising,” I say. “I can do that.”

"We're surviving smart,” he corrects. He looks at me, and something in his expression is different now.

"Which means from here, you don't leave my sight."

I open my mouth, the argument is already loaded and ready. I've never liked being told what to do when the person doing the telling assumes I don't have a say. It's a whole thing. Ask literally anyone who's ever tried to manage me through a migraine.

Then I close my mouth. Because underneath the flatness of his words is something I recognize now. He’s not trying to be in control over me, he’s trying to protect me. There is decidedly a difference. It’s the same thing that sat underneath You're allowed to not be okay for a minute.