Page 37 of Reeves

I run the timeline through my head without meaning to. Six years since I left. Six years since this letter was written. The kid looks about that age.

The math is too neat to ignore.

"Goddammit."

I fold the letter again, pressing the crease flat with my thumb.The paper feels hot in my hands, as if it might burn through my fingers.

Do I have a son?

My phone quivers against the kitchen table, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

I grab it, glancing at the screen. An unfamiliar number with a Virginia area code.

"Stone."

“Petty Officer Stone, this is Lieutenant Commander Kaplan from Naval Medical Center in Portsmouth. Do you have a moment to discuss your imaging results?"

My back straightens automatically. "Yes, Sir."

"I have your shoulder scan from three weeks ago. I apologize that I'm just getting around to looking at it. It wasn't labeled as urgent, just routine, so it got pushed to the bottom." Papers shuffle on the other end.

"There was no urgency, Sir."

"The results are more concerning than a routine scan. There's significant inflammation around the rotator cuff, and we're seeing nerve compression at the C5-C6 junction."

I pace to the window, phone pressed to my ear. Morning sun spills across the yard where my brothers and I used to play football until someone bled.

Suddenly, I can see a kid in that yard.

"What are you saying, Sir?" I keep my voice neutral, clinical.

“This isn’t just a matter of rest and physical therapy.” Kaplan’s voice shifts, careful and controlled. “Your surgery was over a year ago. You should be showing more signs of improvement by now. The damage shows signs of being degenerative. Continued strain could lead to permanent impairment.”

I think about the ropes course. Open water. The strain in my shoulders when I push through the last stretch. I can do the work.I know I can do the work. It’s the part where they decide I can’t, that tightens everything in me.

“We’ll need you to report for further evaluation when you return next week. Until then, I’m recommending limited duty status.”

“Limited duty,” I say.

“Desk assignments and training oversight. Shore rotation until we complete a full workup.”

My hand tightens on the counter, pressure building up my arm into my shoulder.

“And if the evaluation confirms your assessment?”

A pause. Not long, but enough.

“We’d be looking at medical reclassification. Possibly a medical discharge, depending on your response to treatment and the options.”

“I understand.”

Appointments, paperwork, timing. I answer, but none of it sticks. When the line goes dead, the kitchen goes quiet in a way that feels louder than it should.

A desk. Or a discharge. And a kid who might be mine.

I set the phone down, then pick it back up and call Gabe before I can think about it too much.

He answers on the second ring.