Page 38 of Reeves

“What, dickhead?”

“You busy?” I ask, bracing my hand against the counter.

“Depends. What’s going on?”

I look out into the yard. “Just got off with Kaplan. He’s talking limited duty for now because of this goddamned shoulder injury. I've got to get more tests next week. Might turn into a reclass.”

There’s a short pause on the line, the kind that tells me he’s already a step ahead of what I’m saying.

“Yeah,” Gabe says. “That’s how they start.”

“I can still do the work. It pisses me off that someone is trying to dictate my career based on images, not my performance.”

“I know you can. That’s not what they’re measuring.”

My grip tightens slightly on the phone. “You try to stay in?”

“For a minute,” he says. “Then I realized I wasn’t arguing a decision. I was reacting to one that had already been made.”

I let that sit, my eyes tracking the fence line outside.

“They offered you a desk,” I say.

“They did.”

“Why didn't you take it?”

“Because it’s not the job,” he says, calm and certain. “You don’t need me to explain that.”

“You’ve got a little time,” he adds. “Use it to decide what you’re going to do if it doesn’t go your way.”

“That’s not the outcome I’m planning on.”

“I didn’t say it was,” Gabe replies. “I said be ready for it.”

I drag a hand across the back of my neck, the tension sitting there.

“Come by later if you want,” he says. “We’ll grab a beer.”

“Maybe,” I say.

“Alright.”

The line clicks off.

I stand there for a moment with the phone in my hand, then set it down and reach for my keys.

Limited duty. Medical reclassification. Discharge.

My fingers find the ibuprofen bottle again. Two more pills join the others I took upstairs. I wash them down with cold coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste.

What the fuck am I without the Teams? Six years building something that made sense. Clear objectives. Defined purpose. Brotherhood that didn't require explanation.

Now this.

And Charli.

And a kid who might be mine.