Page 7 of What We Brave
2
BLAKE
Iwake up before the alarm.
No nightmare this time. No fire and flames. No screaming. No waking up believing they’re hurting and in pain and I can’t do anything.
Just the snap of eyes opening in the pitch black and the immediate, suffocating weight of Kabul.
03:47 AM.
I fucking hate the heat. The AC unit rattles in the window frame, spitting out lukewarm air and fighting a losing war against the concrete walls. My sheet is glued to my back, drenched in sweat. I peel it off, my skin crawling. The air in this place tastes like recycled dust and CLP gun oil. It gets into your pores. It coats the back of your throat no matter how much water you drink, a constant, gritty reminder of exactly where you are.
I don't think about the workshop. I don't let my brain touch the smell of cedar shavings or the quiet focus of my hands on a piece of wood. I definitely don't think about the look on Reid's face—the raw, broken realization that I'm exactly the piece of shit he always feared I was—or the sound of Laine's voice in the rain, telling me I’m sick.
That’s dead weight. You carry dead weight on a ruck, your kneesbuckle. You slow down, you die. Or worse, you get someone else killed.
And I’ve already done enough of that.
I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the cot. The mattress springs shriek, a metal-on-metal scrape that grates against my teeth.
Routine takes over. It’s the only thing keeping the quiet out.
Boots on. I yank the laces tight until they bite into the instep, welcoming the pinch. Check the gear on the footlocker. I run my hands over the plate carrier, testing the heavy ceramic seams. I pick up the M4. The bolt carrier group is wet with fresh oil. I cycle the action.Click-clack.
Crisp. Perfect mechanical function. If only my fucking brain worked that well.
My phone sits on the metal shelf next to a half-empty water bottle. It’s a black brick. Dead. I haven't charged it since I landed three months ago.
I stare at it. The urge to plug it in is a physical itch under my skin, a withdrawal tremor in my hands. Just to check. Just to see if Reid finally sent a text telling me to rot in hell. Just to look at a picture of her face, even if seeing it would feel like swallowing broken glass.
No. Shut it down.
The room is too small. The silence is deafening. I grab my towel and shove out the door, needing to move before the thoughts catch up and break my jaw.
The compound is bathed in the sickly yellow glow of the sodium security lights. The gravel crunches under my boots—a harsh, bone-dry sound. There’s no moisture here. Oregon was green. Alive. This place is just rocks and dust waiting to bury you.
The gym is a converted shipping container on the north perimeter. It smells of rust and old sweat. The air tastes like iron. It’s empty. Good.
I load the bar. The plates are mismatched, scarred and chipped from years of abuse. I slide three on each side. 315 pounds. I get under it. The weight is honest. It doesn't give a fuck that you destroyed your best friend's life. It doesn't ask for apologies. It just wants to crush your windpipe.
Down. Up. Down. Up.
My triceps burn. The muscle fibers in my chest feel like they’re shredding.
Pain is good. Pain is focus. If I’m hurting, I’m not remembering.
I do five sets. Then five more. I push until my arms are shaking violently, until the knurling on the bar threatens to tear the calluses off my sweat-slicked palms.
I rack the weight with a clang that rattles the metal walls. I sit up, wiping the stinging sweat from my eyes with the back of my hand.
Wilson is on the incline bench across the container. Didn't hear the door open. He’s flaring his arms out like a rookie, putting all the tension directly on his rotator cuffs.
"Elbows."
"What?" Wilson grunts, his face purple as he strains against the bar.
I walk over. I shouldn't care. It’s not my shoulder. I’m here to shoot things and guard things, not play physical therapist. But I can't watch a guy break himself if I know how to fix his form. It’s a flaw in my wiring. I have to fix things, even though I'm the one who breaks everything else.
