I’m not in Afghanistan anymore, but a sterile hospital room.
Garrett’s dark eyes aren’t looking back at me, but the faded blue ones of my dad.
The rhythmic beeping of monitors replaces the barrage of gunfire.
My dad’s breath comes in wheezing, labored gasps, despite the oxygen he’s being given.
In the background, an alarm sounds, followed by a crackling, “Code blue. Code blue in room two-twelve.”
My gaze skitters to the number posted on the open door. It says two-o-eight.
My dad pulls his oxygen mask down. “Ace.” His gaze searches mine. “You’re here.”
I grab his hand, hating how cold it is in mine. “I’m here.” My throat goes thick. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. The mission… I couldn’t leave until it was complete. I’m so sorry.”
His eyes shine wetly. “It’s okay, Ace. You’re here now. And—” He coughs. It’s deep. Rattly. Painful sounding.
Pain slashes my heart. “Just rest, okay? I’ll be right here.” I start to move his mask back over his face. But he stops me.
“Ace,” he says. “It’s the… greatest honor… of my life. Having you… for a son.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
I blink them away. But when my eyes reopen, I’m plunged into a different reality.
My dad is gone.
Before me, Yara lies still and silent, her eyes closed and her skin unnaturally pale.
She’s still so beautiful, but something’s missing.
I look at her chest, and it’s not moving.
No steady rise and fall of her breath.
Panic leaps inside me.
I take her wrist, fumbling for her pulse.
But there’s nothing. Not even a faint thrum of life.
Terror bursts to life, clawing and tearing.
“Yara,” I beg, grabbing hold of her shoulders and shaking her. “Wake up. Please.”
She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t open those gorgeous green-gray eyes to look at me. She doesn’t do anything aside from flop limply on the bed.
“Please,” I beg. “Please. Wake up, Yara. I’m sorry. I’ll do anything. Just wake up. Please.”
Tears I haven’t shed since the day my dad died drip onto the crisp sheet, making dark spots where they land. “Please, Yara. I can’t be without you. Please. I love you.”
From somewhere in the hallway, a feminine voice calls, “Ace. It’s okay. You’re in your apartment. You’re okay.”
Shock ripples through me.
In front of me, Yara is still motionless. Lifeless.
But from the hallway, I hear her voice.
