Page 103 of What We Break
"You gonna vibrate right out of that seat, or are we gonna talk about it?"
I flinch hard enough to knock my knee into the dash. Tony's leaning against the open passenger door frame, gear bag slung over one shoulder. He's not scrolling his phone. Not halfway to the parking lot already, mentally home with Maria and the kids. He's just standing there. Watching me.
"I'm fine," I say. Automatic. Like a reflex test — tap the knee, get the lie. "Just... coming down. Long shift."
"Bullshit." Tony doesn't move. "I’ve seen you work a pediatric code and then argue with me about the best kind of donut ten minutes later. You compartmentalize better than anyone I know, Reid. But you haven't said a word since we handed off Marcus."
Marcus. Thirty-four years old. Two tours in Afghanistan. Camehome to his apartment and tried to swallow a bottle of pills because he couldn't stop seeing his squad leader's bloody face every time he closed his eyes.
"He was just..." I clear my throat. Trying to find the Paramedic Reid voice. The one that clips everything into neat little clinical sentences and doesn't shake. "He was a heavy case. The things he was saying in the rig..."
"It's because he was a Marine," Tony says. Not a question.
I look away. Out the windshield. The red glow of the ER entrance bleeds across the hood.
"Yeah. Maybe."
"Reid." Tony's voice drops. The partner-banter edge just gone, like someone flipped a switch. "I know we don't do the deep emotional dives. I leave that to you and Blake. But I know your history. I know you lost your brother over there."
My hands tighten on the wheel until my knuckles go white. The leather creaks under my grip.
Jared.
It's coming from Jared. Who never got the chance to come home and fall apart like Marcus. Who never got the chance to try pills or therapy or anything else. Because he stepped on an IED six months before his tour ended.
"Marcus kept saying he wished we hadn't found him," I whisper. The words taste like ash. "He was crying because he lived, Tony. And I’m sitting here thinking about my brother, who probably wanted to live so fucking badly in those last seconds."
Tony sighs, a heavy, tired sound. He shifts his weight, leaning closer. "You can't do the math, man. You start comparing who got to live and who didn't, and why... it’ll eat you alive. You know that."
"Knowing it doesn't stop it."
"No. It doesn't." Tony pauses, studying me. "You did good tonight. You talked him down when he woke up swinging. You got him here. That’s the job. The rest of it? The ghosts? That’s above our pay grade."
"Is it?" I finally look at him. "Because it feels like the ghosts are the only thing that matters right now."
Tony holds my gaze for a second, then nods slowly. He knows hecan’t fix this with a pep talk. "You sure you're good to drive? I can follow you."
"No." I shake my head. "I'm good. Seriously."
"Go home, Reid. Go talk to Blake. He’s the only one that understands the way you need him to."
Home.Where Blake is probably working in his shop, focused on some restoration project, content in his own space. He served in the same places I did and lost the same person. He would take one look at my face and know exactly what this call did to me.
"Yeah," I say, forcing a smile that feels brittle. "I'm heading there now."
"Text me when you're home. Or I’m calling the cops to do a welfare check."
"Now you're just being dramatic."
"Yeah, I am." Tony slaps the door frame twice—the universal 'shift is over' signal. "Get out of here. Be safe."
Tony heads to his truck, and I just — sit there. Ten minutes. Maybe more. Engine off, windows up, the silence of the cab doing that thing where it gets louder the longer you let it.
Tony's right. I should go home. Blake would get it. He'd put on coffee without asking, and we'd either talk or not talk, and both would be fine.
That's the problem.
He gets it too much. Blake would scoop up whatever I'm carrying and stack it right on top of his own pile, and I can't — I won't do that to him. Not now. Not when he's finally in a good place. Work's going well. He's sleeping in his own bed most nights instead of passing out face-down in the workshop.
