Page 24 of Collateral Damage
The recipe said it was for beginners. Apparently, "beginners" assumes a level of basic life skills I bypassed in favor of organic chemistry and residency.
I dish out two plates of penne and what I can only describe as "autoclaved" chicken. The pasta is a clumped, starchy mass, and the poultry has been cooked into something with the structural integrity of a pencil eraser.
As I present the offering, Silas doesn’t flinch. He sets down the slide of his gun, clears a small patch of space among the hardware, and accepts the bowl with a steady hand.
"It’s nutritionally adequate," I say, my voice sounding thin even to my own ears. "I’m fairly confident it won't give us Campylobacter. I scorched it until any potential cellular life was extinguished."
He looks at the bowl, then back at me, his expression unreadable. "Looks fine to me."
"I'm serious, Silas. We might be better taking our chances with?—"
“If you cooked it, I’m eating it," he says, his voice dropping into a low, grounded register that makes the kitchen feel less like enemy territory and more like a shelter.
I go to sit, but before I can even pull my chair out, he sets his fork down and bows his head. The transition is so quiet, so natural, that I’m caught mid-breath. I’m not sure if he’s praying or just bracing his stomach for the impact of the overcooked noodles.
"Lord, thank You for this food and for safe travels today," he says, his voice low and unhurried. "Thank You for Your protection and provision. Bless this meal and the hands that prepared it. Amen."
I sit frozen, caught off guard by the simple, unvarnished sincerity of it. When he looks up, there’s no performance. No judgment. Just a man ready to eat.
He takes a bite. I do the same and immediately regret it.
It’s a failure. The pasta is a paste, the chicken is rubber, and the sauce tastes metallic and tired.
"It's awful," I say, dropping my fork.
He swallows a mouthful without a single flicker of distaste. "I've had worse."
I raise an eyebrow, my medical brain momentarily overriding my embarrassment. "When? During a clinical study on sensory deprivation?"
He spears another piece of the rubbery chicken without hesitation. "Try a month in the Hindu Kush on nothing but 'Vegetable Crumbles' and local goat milk that had turned three days prior."
"I've heard about military rations," I say, trying to find a rhythm that isn't just me apologizing. "They're designed to be indestructible, aren't they?"
"They’re designed to keep a man moving at four in the morning when he hasn't slept in forty-eight hours," he says. "Flavor isn't part of the contract. I once spent a week in a hide site in Somalia where the only thing we had was a case of lemon-lime electrolyte bars that had been stored in a tin shed for three summers."
"How were they?"
"Like eating a scented candle." He takes another bite of my pasta, looking entirely unfazed. "Compared to those, this is Michelin Star."
"You're humoring me."
"I'm really not." He meets my eyes, his expression deadpan. "In survival training, they taught us how to find grubs in rotting logs. There was a specific type of beetle that tasted like burnt hair and bile."
I stare at him, my fork suspended halfway to my mouth. "You actually ate them."
"Twelve of them. To pass the course." He shrugs, then looks down at his plate. "They didn't have the benefit of a marinara sauce."
A laugh escapes before I can stop it—short, surprised, and real. It’s the first time the weight in my chest has felt even slightly lighter.
He smiles, just a slight curve at the corner of his mouth, and continues eating the disaster I created as if it’s a steak dinner. Not once does he push his plate away or suggest we open a can of something else.
The kitchen grows quiet, the only sound the rhythmic scrape of a fork against ceramic. It’s a domestic sound, ordinary and safe, yet it makes my skin prickle.
The more time I spend with him, the more the image of the cold, tactical operator shifts. He’s not just a soldier; he’s a man who finds grace in the wreckage.
For the first time since this nightmare began, fear isn’t the only reason my heart rate is accelerating.
Silas
