No more Hale.
Kowalski kept talking, but Elliot heard none of it. His mind ran calculations he didn't want to run—distances, posting lengths, leave allowances, how often two soldiers on opposite coasts could reasonably end up in the same place.
But there was no advantage. The assignments were final. In fourteen days, this ended.
He'd known that to begin with. They both had. So why did his throat feel tight?
Elliot waseight years old again, standing in the backyard in his pajamas, the rain coming down in sheets. Thunder cracked overhead, so loud it sounded like thesky split open, and he heard himself cry. Small, hiccupping sobs he couldn't control. His father was in the doorway, backlit by the house lights, his face hard and disapproving.
"You’re a Shaw. Shaws don't cry," his father said, his voice cold and precise, each word clipped like a command. "You'll stay out here until you learn that."
The door closed. The lock clicked.
Elliot remained, alone in the dark, lightning flashing across the sky like artillery fire. He pressed himself against the house, seeking shelter under the eaves, but the wind drove the rain sideways, pelting his face, his arms, soaking him to the bone.
The thunder kept coming, each crack making him flinch, making him cry despite his efforts not to.
Nobody came.
He woke up gasping, his T-shirt soaked through with sweat. Steady breathing surrounded him in the dark barracks.
He sat up slowly, running a hand through his damp hair.
Bordel.
The walls were too close, the air too thick with the smell of soldiers in close quarters—stale and sweaty.
He flexed his fingers. They trembled. If he lay back down, he'd be back there—eight years old, alone in the rain, listening to thunder and wondering if The General would ever let him back inside.
He grabbed his boots, laced them with shaking hands, the leather stiff and cold under his fingers, and slipped out of the barracks.
The night air hit him like a slap, washing away the phantom sensation of rain still clinging to his skin. He headed for the stairwell at the end of the building, the onenobody used because it only led to a locked roof. It was private.
Elliot sat on the concrete steps, the cold seeping through his sweatpants. Elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
In for four, hold for four, out for four.
His pulse raced—one-twenty, maybe more.
Footsteps echoed in the stairwell, the sound bouncing off concrete walls. Elliot didn't look up. He knew the cadence of those footsteps.
Hale sat down beside him on the step, close enough that Elliot could feel his warmth. He kept his head down, focused on the count.In for four, hold for four, out for four. His hands shook in his hair, fingers tangled in the damp strands.
"You okay?" Hale finally asked, his voice low and careful, like he was defusing a bomb about to blow.
Elliot let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "Fine."
"Is that why you're sitting in a stairwell at oh-four-hundred looking like crap?" There was no sarcasm in his words, only quiet observation.
Lifting his head, he met Hale’s eyes. In the dim light from the emergency exit sign, Hale watched him patiently.
"Nightmare," Elliot said finally. "It's nothing."
"Doesn't look like nothing. What was it about?"
Elliot ran a hand over his face. How did you explain this to someone who’d never had a father like that?
"My father made me sleep outside during a thunderstorm when I was eight. He saw me crying and decided to toughen me up.”
