I read it three times. Four. Looking for the autocorrect error, the missing context, the follow-up that would say “just kidding” or explain that this was meant for someone else. But her contact photo stared back at me—that picture from five years ago at Kayla’s high school graduation, when things were still normal, or at least what passed for normal in our family.
The base cafeteria was starting to fill up with early risers, the smell of burnt coffee and something trying to be eggs drifting through the corridors. Someone laughed loudly in the hallway. A door slammed. The ordinary sounds of a military morning, all of them suddenly feeling like they were happening in a different dimension from the one I was occupying.
My hands were steady—years of training had taught me that much. But inside, something was collapsing in slow motion, like a building falling floor by floor, everything that held it up giving way in sequence.
Before I could process the first message, my phone buzzed again.
Kayla this time. My little sister, the one I’d taught to ride a bike and helped with geometry homework over scratchy video calls from Forward Operating Bases whose locations I couldn’t disclose.
