Page 31 of Returned Mail

I drop the envelope. It lands among the others with a soft thump. That’s it. Out of my hands. I leave before I can change my mind.

Mack is waiting near the vehicle when I reach the motor pool. He takes one look at me. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean more than usual.”

“Keep talking.”

“What are you gonna do? Write me a strongly worded letter?” I stare at him, and he grins.

Asshole.

I check my gear, and everything looks in place. The bruise along my ribs flares when I twist the wrong way. Mack notices. His grin disappears. “You sure you’re good?”

“I can do my job. That's enough,” I say.

There’s a reason Mack matters more than most people out here. He knows when to joke. He also knows when to stop. He holds my gaze for another second. Then nods.

We move toward the hood of the lead vehicle with everyone else. The briefing is short. We're taking the same route south. We’ll do the supply drop, pick up personnel, and return. There are reports of increased movement near one section of the road, but nothing has been confirmed. That means nothing, because unconfirmed can kill you just as fast.

I study the route, check the marked intersections, the areas where visibility narrows, the places I remember from the last run. For a second, my mind drifts back to the letter I just sent to Monica, but I shut it down. The letter is gone now. Out of my hands.

This isn’t.

I drag my attention back to the map. Commit the route to memory. Ask one question about the southern approach. Get my answer. All done.

By the time the briefing ends, Monica is somewhere I can’t afford to reach for. Not now. That’s the job. You take everything else and put it away—the fear, the exhaustion, even the woman who may already be done waiting for you. You lock it somewhere deep enough that it can’t interfere.

Mack’s being quiet for once. That should probably worry me more than the mission. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong with you?” I ask.

“Nothing’s wrong with me.”

“Bullshit.” He adjusts the strap on his kit. Then glances at me. “You think she’s done?”

The question hits harder than it should. “Don’t know, can’t think about it right now.”

“George.”

“I said I don’t know, and I can’t be thinking about that right now.” He puts his hands in the air and nods.

For a second, neither of us moves to climb in. Then he asks, “What do you miss most?” I know who he means. The answer should be easy. Her. Monica.

Instead, “My apartment”, I say.

Mack leans against the side of the truck. “What about it?”

I look toward the gate. “It’s quiet.” He waits. “There’s a big window looking over the city. You can see the lights at night. Freeway in the distance. Trees past the road.”

“So you miss the view?”

I almost say yes. “I miss who I thought I was gonna be in it.” That’s the truth. Yeah, I miss my home, but it's the version of myself I thought I was going to be there that I miss most.

Mack goes still, and for once, he doesn’t make a joke. “Yeah,” he says after a second. “I get that.” I look at him. He probably does. Everyone out here is hanging on to some version of themselves that lives somewhere else.

Mack slaps the side of the truck. “Come on, old man.”

“I’m thirty-six.”