Page 80 of Collateral Damage

---

I drink, the cool water hitting my throat, then look back at the ceiling. "Ava," I say.

"She's here," he says. "Caleb's with her."

Pressure unknots in my chest that I hadn't fully registered were there, a tightness that had been holding my breath hostage.

Dad sets the cup aside and looks at me. "She kept you alive on that mountain," he says.

"She kept herself alive on that mountain," I say. "I nearly got her killed."

He lets out a slow breath. “This is about the Cascades, isn’t it?”

I swallow, my mouth running dry again. I stare at the ceiling. He knows me better than to speak any more on that. Some wounds cut deeper than physical ones, and he’s always been wise enough to let them sit in the silence.

"Caleb told me what she did with the rifle."

I look at the ceiling, remembering her shooting at the man I was supposed to protect her from.

"Silas."

"Sir."

"Look at me."

Out of respect, I oblige, turning my gaze back to his.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. It’s the posture he's always used when something matters enough to say carefully.

"Who is she to you?" he says.

The question sits between us, plain and unhurried, the way my father asks everything that counts.

"Too much," I say.

Dad is quiet for a moment. Then he reaches over and squeezes my good arm once. A grounding pressure.

"Says who?" he says.

"She's a civilian," I say. "She's been through enough."

"She picked up a .308 for you," he says. "That's not fragile."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is?"

I shift against the pillow. My shoulder protests immediately, sharp and demanding, and I ignore it.

"The work," I say. "The enemies. The uncertainty. Asking someone to live inside that?—"

"Your mother did," he says.

Dad doesn't say it often. He doesn't need to. But when he does, it lands the way it always lands—not as a wound, but as a reminder. She knew exactly what she was signing up for, and she did it anyway, and she never once made him feel like a burden for it.

"That was different," I say.

"How."

“She’s… not Ava.”

---