“You don’t make it about what she can’t handle. You make it about you. You want her closer. You want to see your son. You don’t like being this far away. All true, none of it’s a lie.”
He studies me like he’s weighing that up against every instinct he has to tell the truth. “She’ll hear what I’m not saying,” he says.
“Maybe.” I shrug. “Or maybe she hears what you are saying, and she’s not on her own in a quiet flat, convincing herself the walls are breathing.”
He goes still for a second, then drags a hand over his face. “I’d have to sort transport,” he says. “What if they say no?”
“Then they say no,” I reply. “But at least you tried something that might actually help instead of waiting for another letter you don’t like the sound of.”
His mouth tightens. “If I do this,” he says, quieter, “it’s not just a visit. It’s moving her, changing everything.” I nod along in agreement. “And if I’m wrong—”
“You’re not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, but I know you,” I answer. “You don’t get like this over nothing.”
He looks away towards the housing block. “Right,” he says after a moment. “I’ll speak to them. See what I can do.”
“Good. And if this works, I expect full credit.”
“You’ll get punched.”
“You’re too slow, old man.” That earns me a small, tired laugh. He turns toward the building, andwe head inside together, the heat hitting us in a stale wave and the noise closing in around us.
Later, I don’t go looking for a reason to leave base, but the chance lands in my lap anyway. Supply run, paperwork, signatures, the kind of mundane thing no one wants and no one questions. I take it, I keep my tone level, and I don’t give anyone a reason to remember me on the way out.
I keep my head down, get the first part of the job done, make sure everything that needs signing is signed, everything that needs collecting is collected, and then I take the long way back, stopping off at the internet café.
Warm air hits as soon as I step inside. I pay for the time, take the same seat I always take, and log in.
The inbox opens, and there’s one new message. I read it once, quickly, enough to get through it. Then again, slower. He kept it simple.“This isn’t temporary.”
I sit back slightly, my eyes still on the screen. Then he asks if it’s temporary for me. I don’t reply, but I close the message and log off. This isn’t something I’m putting in writing; if he wants an answer, he can have it properly.
I push the chair back and leave before I have the chance to reconsider. By the time I get back to base, the plan has already formed in my head. There are ways to get hold of things if you know who to ask. Equipment moves in and out all the time, not everything gets logged properly, and sometimes it gets “lost” in transit.
I don’t make it obvious or rush it. I take the rest of the day to finish what I’m supposed to be doing, keep everything routine, and keep myself where I’m expected to be.
Then, later, when it’s quieter, I take a detour. It doesn’t take long. A quick conversation and a favour that I’m owed. Then something is passed over that doesn’t get acknowledged.
I don’t bring the phone back to my room, that would be too obvious. It would also be too easy to find if someone decides to look.
There’s an empty barracks block two buildings over, mostly unused and rooms that don’t always get checked. I leave it there, tucked out of sight, exactly where no one’s going to bother going unless they have a reason to. Then I walk back like nothing’s changed.
Midnight comes and goes, and I lie there staring at the ceiling, going over the timing in my head.
Comms room. After midnight. He’ll be there or he won’t. Either way, I’m not answering that email. If he wants to know whether it’s temporary, he can ask me properly.
And I’ll answer him the same way.
FIVE
CAIDEN
I get handed the folder five minutes beforeI’msupposed to be done for the day by a captain who says, “Need this signed off at supply,” with the casual confidence of someone who already knowshe’sruined my mood.
I stare at him for a second, fighting the urge to say, ‘You’reaware that other people exist, yeah?’
