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Then, I look around again at the empty cots of my unit and I remember where I am.
Chapter 22
Caleb
Just yesterday, I had my team’s blood on my hands and today, I’m going home.
I always thought I’d feel differently about it. I thought I’d feel happier, but something feels out of place, like a puzzle piece that just won’t fit right until you realize you’ve got it in backward.
I look straight ahead at Boxcar’s cot. He’s still there, sleeping quietly. His dirty shirt still sits in a clump on the floor. My lips twitch along with the rest of me at the memory of last night.
Fox’s cot is empty. Just as empty as Rogers’ and West’s. Usually, it only takes a hiccup to wake me, but I must have slept through him tying off his boots.
I throw on some fresh clothes and step outside into the desert sun. It’s somehow harsher than usual and each breath feels less satisfying than the last. I scan the camp for Fox’s face but he’s nowhere to be seen.
“Fawn!”
Paxton waves me toward the command tent and I slip inside. The men he brought with him sit around the tent, each one of them staring me down as I scan their hard faces.
“Yes, sir?”
“Chopper leaves in an hour,” he barks, chewing on the end of a pencil. “You and Carson better be on it.”
I nod. “Absolutely, sir. We will be.”
“Good.”
He waves me off and bends down to sift through a stack of paperwork on the corner desk.
I linger for a moment more. “Sir, I’d like to speak with Fox before I go. Do you know where he is?”
“Who?”
“Fitzpatrick, sir.”
Paxton pauses and stands up taller. “Oh, him,” he says, sliding the pencil out from between his teeth. “Fitzpatrick was transferred out this morning.”
“Where?” I ask, my skin crawling with confusion.
He hesitates, furrowing his brow so a shadow casts over his eyes. “Doesn’t matter anymore,” he mutters. “Damn plane went down. He’s gone.”
My heart sinks. His tone is so cold, so impersonal like he just lost a pawn on a chessboard.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
He glances up and his eyes glide over me. “I said Fitzpatrick is gone,” he repeats with annoyance. “Shot down. No survivors.”
My senses cease. I can’t feel anything. No desert heat. No sounds. No scents. Just the blinding, white lights of rage filling my vision.
“That’s not possible,” I finally say, refusing to believe it.
I just saw him. He was here last night. I spoke to him. He can’t be gone.
Paxton laughs and my hands roll into fists. “No, honey,” he spits, “that’s reality. Now get out of here. I don’t have time to hold your hand after every broken nail.”
I lunge forward. The others shout as I wrap my fingers around Paxton’s throat. His eyes grow wide with surprise and every bit of amusement drains from them as I squeeze.
“Fawn! Let go!”
