Page 35 of Returned Mail

“You keep trying to come back.”

I look at him.

“That matters.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah.”

He adjusts the strap on his vest. “Even if it doesn’t fix everything.”

That one I believe. Maybe because he isn’t pretending love solves it. Maybe because he isn’t telling me Monica will wait forever. Maybe because somewhere between leaving and coming home, damage can happen anyway.

I nod once. It’s all I have, and Mack lets me have it.

“You are surprisingly wise today,” I say as I scan the road.

“I'm always like that. You're just the emotionally unavailable sergeant I tolerate who never notices.” I laugh, for real this time.

The first in longer than I can remember.

“You’re an asshole.”

“And yet, here you are by my side.”

“That’s because I’m trapped in a metal box with you.”

“Living the dream.”

“Fuck off.”

He grins.

For a few minutes, something in my chest feels less tight. Not fixed. Nothing is fucking fixed. But Mack doesn’t try to fix it, and that helps.

The radio crackles. “Five minutes.”

The driver confirms, and I straighten slightly. The conversation is now over because our attention shifts to the road, to the building, to the intersections, to everything and anything.

I adjust my grip on my rifle; the bruise along my ribs throbs, but I ignore it. Mack notices the change in me, and his posture shifts too. That’s the thing about people you’ve worked beside long enough. You don’t need to say it. One second, he’s the asshole making jokes about my feelings. The next, he’s locked in. Watching. Ready.

The checkpoint begins to take shape ahead, with low concrete barriers. A small structure near the road. Nothing moving that shouldn’t be. The radio crackles again. I scan left, then right, then check the road ahead. I settle my rifle against my chest. The truck keeps moving.

The checkpoint comes into view.

I’m ready.

Chapter Ten

Mia

The first apartment I found was perfect.

Or at least it felt that way.

Second floor. Corner unit. A balcony overlooking a courtyard where someone had planted actual flowers—not the sad, half-dead kind landlords put in decorative pots and forget about. Real ones. Bright and alive and completely indifferent to the fact that my life had fallen apart.

“This is it,” Lyann said, spinning around the empty living room. “This is your hot-girl-era apartment.”