Page 136 of Reeves

"Yep. My friend helped me pick it out." I adjust the straps, making sure they'll fit him properly. "What do you think?"

"Cool!" Benjy climbs into it and I help buckle him, my hands steady despite the storm in my head.

"Wow, Reeves. Thank you for thinking of that."

I close his door and climb into the driver seat. The space between the driver's seat and the passenger seat is suddenly much smaller than I remember. Her floral scent hits me and I secretly take a deeper breath to get more of it inside me.

She looks at me differently right now. I smile to myself, sitting on top of the world taking our son to a tank show together.

"The uniform suits you," she says as I back out. She already said that, so she must be really impressed.

I don't deflect with a joke or brush it off. I let her words sit between us.

"Thanks."

"Everyone buckled?"

"Yes!" Benjy shouts from the back. "Is it true tanks can crush cars? How fast do they go? Can they swim like boats?"

I check the rearview mirror, catching his excited expression. His questions aren't random noise. He wants real answers.

"They don't swim exactly," I explain, pulling onto the main road. "Some have snorkels that let them cross rivers if they're not too deep. But they're heavy, around seventy tons, so they don't float."

"Seventy TONS?" His eyes go wide. "That's bigger than PopPop's boat!"

"Way bigger," I confirm. "They're slower than most vehicles, though. They can go about forty-five miles per hour tops. But they can definitely crush cars."

I glance at Charli, who watches me with surprise.

Halfway through the drive, Benjy asks another question about tank armor. Charli turns to explain something to him, and when she faces forward again, my hand brushes her arm. The contact is light, barely there, but intentional in a way I can't deny to myself.

She goes still for a beat, her breath catching. Then she eases back into her seat, putting just enough space between us to break contact without making it obvious. I drop my hand back to the wheel, but the awareness of her remains.

The truck phone rings suddenly, the sound cutting through the tension. I glance at the screen, don’t recognize the number, and grab my cell instead of letting it go through the speakers.

They don’t want to hear whoever this is.

“Stone,” I answer, my tone shifting without thinking.

“Petty Officer Stone, this is Seaman Alvarez from Naval Medical Center Portsmouth. I’m calling about your prescription transfer.”

I keep my eyes on the road. “Go ahead.”

“We’ve sent your refill to a civilian pharmacy near your current location. It's a Walgreens on Bourbon Street. It should be ready for pickup this evening. I can text you the address.”

“Copy that.”

There’s a pause. “Do you anticipate needing an adjustment based on your last evaluation?”

“Negative. What we're doing works until I get back next week.”

When I get back next week. Saying that out loud in this car, with everyone's ears on me, makes my gut twist.

“Understood. You’re still scheduled to follow up when you return?”

“Hooyah.”

“All right. We’ll seeyou then.”