Jake

Lauren gets me off the couch, though I don't remember standing.

One moment I'm staring at the eleven calls I ignored, and the next she is guiding my arms through a clean shirt in the bedroom. She buttons it wrong the first time, swears under her breath, and starts over while I stand there uselessly. Her wet hair leaves dark patches across the shoulders of the shirt she borrowed from me, but she hasn't stopped to dress or call anyone to bring her clothes. She opens drawers, asks where I keep my underwear, and drops socks and T-shirts into the duffel bag on the bed when I point toward the dresser.

My laptop is open beside it, the screen filled with flight times.

"There's one at two forty out of Little Rock," she says. "You'll be in El Paso a little after six."

I stare at the numbers without understanding what they mean.

"Jake."

"Yeah."

"That's the flight I'm booking."

"Okay."

She watches me for a second before turning back to the computer. My phone rings on the nightstand, and the sound locks every muscle in my body. Lauren checks the screen before picking it up.

"It's Rhodes."

I don't reach for it, so she crosses the room and presses it into my hand. My fingers close because she makes them.

"Tropper," Rhodes says when I answer.

I sit on the edge of the bed before my knees give out. "Yeah."

"Callahan told me what happened."

Across the room, Lauren keeps packing, though her movements have slowed.

"I've got the night tour," I say.

"No, you don't."

"Mercer's still on, and I need to—"

"We'll cover your squad."

"I should call everybody."

"You don't need to call anyone. Callahan already started the chain."

I tighten my grip around the phone. Rhodes lets the silence sit for a moment before speaking again.

"Take the week, Jake. If you need longer, call me."

I try to thank him, but something catches in my throat. All that comes out is, "Yeah."

"That's an order."

"I heard you."

His voice softens. "I'm sorry."

I hang up before he can say anything else kind enough to break me.

Lauren closes the duffel and pulls the zipper around it. "The flight's booked."

I nod, but I remain on the bed until she tells me we have to leave in twenty minutes. My eyes drift to the photograph on the nightstand. Brendon is eight, missing his front teeth and hanging from my shoulders while fifteen-year-old me pretends he weighs more than I can carry.

The frame stays where it is.

Lauren drives me to the airport. I remember the trip in pieces: her hand at the center of my back as we move through the terminal, a paper cup of coffee cooling between my palms, the gate agent asking whether I checked a bag and Lauren answering for me.

At the entrance to security, she reaches up and straightens the collar of my shirt.

"Your wallet is in your front pocket," she says. "Phone's in the other one. Charger's in your bag. I texted you the confirmation, and Sammy knows when you're landing."

I look past her toward the line of people taking off their belts and shoes, emptying their pockets into gray plastic bins.

"Jake."

My eyes return to her.

She places one hand against my jaw. There is nothing sexual in it now, nothing teasing or temporary. She holds my face as though she is afraid I might disappear if she lets go.

"You're going to get on the plane," she says. "Then you're going to get to Sammy's house. That's all you have to do today."

I nod.

Her thumb moves once across my cheek. "Call me when you land."

I walk away before I have to answer.

I don't remember most of the flight. I wake when the wheels strike the runway with my shoulder pressed against the window and my phone clutched in my hand. Sammy's eleven missed calls are still at the top of the history. Brendon's call from yesterday morning sits farther down.

I open his voicemail but don't press play.

By the time I land in El Paso, the sun is dropping behind the mountains beyond the terminal. A casualty assistance officer waits near baggage claim with my name written on a sheet of paper. He introduces himself twice, and I forget his name both times.

The mountains sit black against the orange sky as he drives me toward Fort Bliss. The officer talks quietly from the front seat, explaining who will be at the house and what the next few days might look like. I hear the sounds he makes, but none of the words stay with me.

Cars line both sides of the street in Fort Bliss housing when we reach Sammy's house. People crowd the porch carrying foil-covered trays and grocery bags. A flag hangs beside the front door, and someone has tied a black ribbon around the mailbox.

The officer says something before I get out of the car, but I don't hear him.

Sammy opens the door before I can knock. For one second, we only stare at each other.

She is wearing one of Brendon's Army sweatshirts. The sleeves cover most of her hands, and her hair is pulled away from her face like somebody else did it for her. Her eyes are swollen nearly shut.

"Jake."

Her knees buckle.

I catch her before she hits the floor, and she folds against me with both fists twisted into the back of my shirt. The sound that comes out of her is the same one I heard over the phone. It travels through her whole body and into mine.

I hold her because there is nothing else I can do.

Over her shoulder, Cady stands barefoot in the hallway with one hand wrapped around the banister. Poppy is tucked behind her, clutching the back of Cady's shirt.

Neither girl comes closer.

The next several hours pass in a blur. Someone puts a plate in front of me, and someone else takes it away untouched. The chaplain says Brendon's name and rests a hand on my shoulder. The casualty assistance officer opens a folder at the kitchen table and starts explaining what happens next.

I sit across from him without hearing a word until he slides a form toward Sammy and asks for her signature. Her hand shakes so hard the pen scratches a line across the page.

I take the folder.

Something inside me wakes up then. It isn't grief or acceptance. It is training.

A problem has been placed in front of me. There are papers, deadlines, names, and phone numbers. Things have to happen in a particular order, and someone has to listen because Sammy can't.

I ask the officer to start again.

The first week becomes two before I understand how much time has passed. Rhodes calls before the first one ends and tells me to take another.

"I can come back after the funeral," I tell him.

"No."

"My squad—"

"Is covered."

"I'm already using more time than—"

"Tropper."

I stop.

"Take another week."

He hangs up without waiting for me to agree.

After that, the days collapse into one another: the trip to Dover, the dignified transfer, the flight back to El Paso, the wake, the funeral, the folded flag. Army officers arrive with folders tucked beneath their arms and leave behind more instructions than any grieving person could follow.

Every hour brings another decision that feels obscene to make. Which photograph should stand beside the casket? Which flowers? Which cemetery? Which passage from Scripture? Which song should play while they carry Staff Sergeant Brendon Tropper out of the church?

I know some of the answers. Others I should know, and I don't.

The casualty assistance officer sits at Sammy's kitchen table every afternoon and walks her through insurance, survivor benefits, military records, travel reimbursement, and forms requiring signatures she can barely manage. He explains everything slowly, sometimes twice.

Sammy nods as though she understands, but most of the time, I can tell she hasn't heard a word.

At night, after I convince her to take the girls upstairs, I spread the packets across the kitchen table and go through them again. I highlight deadlines, make lists, and write questions in the margins for the officer to answer the next morning. I organize everything into folders and print labels for them.

INSURANCE. BENEFITS. FUNERAL. HOUSING.

The plastic tabs line up in a perfect row.

Brendon would know what Sammy needed without turning her life into a filing system. He would know which decisions mattered and which ones could wait. He would know how to get Poppy into bed without letting her brush her teeth six times because she kept forgetting she had already done it.

Instead, she has me.

My phone never stops. It buzzes on the nightstand in Sammy's guest room, pings across the kitchen counter while I'm trying to understand another form, and vibrates in my pocket while the funeral director explains the order of the service.

Every time I look, there is another missed call, text, or voicemail.

Ruiz. Franklin. Mills. DeMarco.

Men I've worked beside for years. Men who have stood shoulder to shoulder with me through raids, wrecks, shootings, stakeouts, and endless nights when the only things keeping us awake were scorched coffee and bullshit stories.

Every message starts with a few seconds of silence because none of them knows what the hell to say.

"Brother, I just heard. I'm so damn sorry."

"If you need anything—and I mean anything—you call me."

"Take your time, Jake. We've got the squad."

Their voices catch in places they don't mean them to. I have heard some of these men scream across crime scenes and bark orders with bullets cracking over their heads. I have never heard them search so helplessly for words.

I should call them back. I should tell them I appreciate it, that their messages matter, that knowing they are there makes some kind of difference.

I can't.

What am I supposed to say? Thanks for covering my shifts while I watch the Army carry my little brother from an airplane in a flag-covered box?

I let the messages accumulate instead. I leave texts unopened and stop voicemails after the first sentence. Sometimes I sit at Sammy's kitchen table after midnight and watch the screen light up, fade, and light again while the air conditioner kicks on and someone turns over upstairs.

I know my guys mean it when they say they have me covered. I know any one of them would get on a plane if I asked.

None of them can give me the one thing I want.

They can't put Brendon's name back on the screen or make him call.

Sammy's house never becomes quiet. There is only motion.

People bring more food than four people could eat in a year. Casseroles crowd the refrigerator, aluminum trays cover the counters, and every flat surface holds cookies, muffins, or another foil-wrapped dish from someone who stood at the front door and admitted they didn't know what else to do.

The other Army wives come and sit with Sammy. They fold laundry without asking, load the dishwasher, and take the girls into the backyard when the house becomes too crowded. They let Sammy cry without trying to quiet her or tell her Brendon is in a better place.

Men from the base stop by in uniform. Some knew Brendon for years. Others served with him for only a few months, but every one of them has a story.

They tell me he was a hell of a leader, that he never asked his soldiers to do anything he wouldn't do himself, that he could make a room laugh five minutes after everything went to shit. They tell me he talked about his girls constantly.

They shake my hand and study me a second too long because they see the resemblance. I make myself thank them and listen to every story, even when hearing his name feels like someone peeling the skin from my body.

They don't know Brendon and I had barely spoken before he deployed. They don't know how many calls I ignored or how many arguments I refused to let die. They don't know that the last time my brother told me he loved me, I let the words sit between us and gave him nothing back.

They don't need to know.

Sammy has enough to carry without dragging my guilt around too.

Then there are the girls.

Cady understands what death means. At least, she understands that her father is not coming home. She doesn't ask when he will call or wait at the window when a car enters the driveway. Instead, she listens from the stairs when adults think she is asleep. She corrects people when they speak about Brendon in the present tense, then goes silent afterward as though she regrets saying it aloud.

She starts helping without being asked. She pours Poppy's cereal, finds her shoes, carries empty glasses into the kitchen, and reaches the front door before any adult whenever the bell rings.

She is ten years old, and she has already decided usefulness might protect her from whatever happens next.

I recognize the instinct.

Poppy is six. She understands that something terrible has happened, but permanence has not settled inside her yet. She stays pressed against Sammy's side whenever strangers enter the house.

When I walk into a room, her eyes widen. She watches me carefully, uncertain what to make of the large man who appeared the same day everyone started crying.

She barely knows me.

That is its own kind of indictment.

Before Brendon deployed, I promised I would check on Sammy and the girls. I did, technically. I sent texts, asked Sammy if everyone was good, and mailed presents when the calendar reminded me about birthdays.

I treated a promise like a box I could check.

Now my brother is dead, and his youngest daughter looks at me like a stranger who happens to have her father's eyes.

She asks when Daddy is going to call, whether he has his phone with him, and if he knows everyone is waiting. Sometimes she asks Sammy. Sometimes she asks me.

The first time she asks me, I am rinsing coffee cups in the kitchen while she sits on the floor lining up plastic horses beneath the table.

"When is Daddy calling?"

The cup slips in my hand and strikes the side of the sink.

"He can't call right now, Pop."

She tilts her head. "Because he's dead?"

The word sounds wrong in her small voice.

"Yeah."

"Can he call when he's done?"

I grip the edge of the sink.

I have faced armed men without feeling what I feel standing in that kitchen.

I crouch in front of her, but she stands and backs away until her shoulders touch Sammy's legs.

"No, sweetheart," I say. "He can't."

She studies me for another second, then turns and buries her face against her mother.

Proof that Brendon loved those girls is everywhere. Their drawings cover the refrigerator, every crooked house and stick-figure family carefully dated in his handwriting. A half-built Lego city sprawls across the coffee table because he promised Cady they would finish it when he came home. His favorite coffee mug still sits beside the machine, and an old camouflage jacket hangs over the banister with TROPPER stitched across the chest.

Every room proves he lived here.

Every room knows he isn't coming back.

Sammy moves through the days in pieces. One minute she is focused, making lists, answering calls, signing documents, and asking clear questions about benefits and burial arrangements. Then something small gets through.

The funeral director asks which photograph she wants enlarged for the memorial table, and Sammy folds over the kitchen counter with both hands pressed to her mouth. She finds one of Brendon's socks mixed into the clean laundry and sits on the floor clutching it to her chest. She opens a cabinet and sees his coffee mug, and that can put her back in bed for hours.

I sit beside her when she lets me. Sometimes I talk, but most of the time I don't. There isn't anything I can say that won't sound stupid.

When she can't get up, I take care of the girls.

Breakfast becomes our time. I make scrambled eggs and burn the toast. Cady tells me her dad made pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse, so I try.

Mine looks like something we should report to animal control.

Poppy stares at it from across the table. "What is it?"

"Mickey."

"No, it isn't."

"It was supposed to be."

Her mouth twitches, and then she smiles.

It happens so quickly I almost miss it. A tiny laugh escapes before she remembers the house is full of grieving adults, and she clamps both hands over her mouth.

"Hey."

Her eyes jump to mine.

"You don't have to do that."

"Do what?"

"Hide it."

She lowers her hands slowly.

"Your dad liked hearing you laugh."

Her chin trembles, but she doesn't run from me. The next morning, she sits in the chair beside mine. I don't mention it. I pour her orange juice and let our elbows touch while we eat.

I force myself out of bed for them. I make breakfast, find missing shoes, carry laundry upstairs, answer the door, and keep the coffee pot full. I do whatever needs doing because usefulness is the only thing standing between me and the truth.

I haven't grieved. Not really.

I didn't cry at Dover when they carried Brendon's casket from the plane. I didn't cry at the wake or while they folded the flag above his casket and placed it into Sammy's hands.

There has always been another form, visitor, meal, or little girl looking at me as though I might know what happens next. I tell myself there is no room for me to fall apart.

The truth is, I'm afraid that once I start, I won't be able to stop.

Leaving should feel cruel, but relief is already waiting beneath the guilt.

At the airport, nobody will need breakfast, paperwork, or an answer I don't have. I can sit alone with my face turned toward the window. Maybe when El Paso disappears beneath the clouds, I can finally lose whatever control I've been clinging to.

Cady stands near the kitchen doorway while I carry my bag downstairs, her arms folded tightly over her chest.

"When are you coming back?"

She looks at the floor when she asks, as though the answer might matter less if she doesn't have to watch my face.

"Soon."

"How soon?"

"I don't know yet." I set the bag beside the door. "But I'm coming back."

She nods once. There are no tears or arguments, only the same unnatural composure she has carried since the officers came to the house.

Poppy doesn't bother pretending.

The second she sees my packed bag, her face crumples. She runs into me and wraps both arms around my waist, crying into my shirt.

I drop the bag and crouch. "Hey. Come here."

She climbs into my arms, her knees digging into my ribs when I lift her. I hold her while she sobs against my neck.

"You can't go."

"I have to go home for a little while."

"Why?"

"I have work."

"Stay here and work."

A laugh catches inside my chest but never gets out. I press my hand against the back of her head.

"I'll come back soon."

She pulls away far enough to look at me. Her cheeks are wet, and her nose has turned pink.

"Promise?"

The word cuts straight through me.

The last promise I made Brendon sits inside my chest like a live round.

"I promise."

Poppy searches my face, deciding whether she believes me. Then she presses herself against me again and holds tighter.

Over her shoulder, I see Cady turn away.

The casualty assistance officer says Sammy and the girls can stay in Fort Bliss housing for now. They will receive survivor benefits, insurance, and help with the final move when Sammy decides where she wants to go.

They are not being forced out tomorrow. I know that, and it should make leaving easier.

It doesn't.

Money can keep a roof over them, pay bills, buy groceries, and cover what the girls need for school. It can't pick Poppy up when she gets sick. It can't sit beside Cady after a nightmare or make sure Sammy gets out of bed on the mornings grief pins her there. It can't be another adult standing inside this house when everything collapses.

I made Brendon a promise.

For years, I pretended the occasional text and birthday present counted as keeping it. I already broke that promise once.

I am not doing it again.

On the flight home, I wait to fall apart. I take the window seat, turn my face toward the glass, and watch El Paso shrink beneath me. The mountains flatten into dark ridges before disappearing under the clouds. Nobody on the plane knows who I am or needs anything from me. If I cry here, I can wipe my face before we land and never see these people again.

I still can't do it.

My chest aches and my throat burns. Brendon's voice follows me all the way back to my empty house, but the tears refuse to come.

Lauren shows up that night with takeout and a six-pack. She doesn't ask whether I want company. She walks inside, puts the food on the counter, and starts pulling cartons from the bag.

"You look like shit," she says.

"Good to see you too."

"I considered flowers, but you'd probably let them die out of spite."

"I don't own a vase."

"Exactly."

She hands me a carton and sits beside me on the couch. The television plays without either of us watching it. She eats lo mein and occasionally passes me something from another container without asking whether I want it.

She doesn't tell me Brendon is in a better place or promise time will make any of this easier. When I stop eating, she takes the carton from my hand, sets it on the table, and stays.

Over the next few weeks, she comes around more often. Sometimes she brings dinner. Sometimes she drags me to Dugan's, where the guys make room without turning my brother into the only subject anyone is allowed to discuss. Ruiz puts a beer in front of me, Franklin calls me an asshole for missing an easy pool shot, and Mills tells a story so filthy Lauren nearly chokes.

They don't treat me like broken glass.

Whenever someone asks how I'm doing, I say, "Fine."

Nobody believes me, but nobody challenges it.

Lauren stays over most nights. Sometimes we have sex because it is the only thing that pulls me completely out of my head. When her hands are on me, I don't hear Sammy crying, see Brendon's casket coming off the plane, or think about Poppy asking when her father will call.

There is only Lauren—her breath, her skin, and the solid weight of her body keeping me in the room.

One morning, I wake with my hand locked around her wrist. She is lying beside me, watching my face, and red marks ring her skin beneath my fingers.

I release her immediately. "Shit."

She flexes her hand once.

"Sorry."

"I know."

She doesn't ask whose hand I thought I was holding or what I was trying to stop. She rolls onto her side and waits until my breathing settles.

I know I am leaning on her harder than I should.

I let her stay anyway.

Work helps. It always does.

I return to my squad and bury myself in reports, callouts, and double shifts. The guys watch me more closely than they used to, but they have the sense not to mention it. I take every ugly case that crosses my desk and stay until the halls empty and the cleaning crew starts moving trash cans between offices.

Still, El Paso follows me home.

Sammy calls twice a week. Poppy always begs to talk, and Cady sometimes comes to the phone, though she never stays long. Sammy insists they are managing.

It is the same lie I tell everyone in Arkansas.

I start looking at departments near them without telling Sammy. She hasn't asked me to move, and I don't know whether she would want me living that close. Maybe this is grief talking. Maybe I need another mission because I don't know what to do with myself when nobody needs rescuing.

But I can't keep waiting for the next emergency before I get on a plane.

A move to El Paso isn't a transfer. It is a resignation.

My seniority, squad, command, and the lieutenant's bars I worked my ass off to earn will not follow me across state lines. My experience might get my foot in the door, but it won't preserve my rank. A department could hire me as a lateral and put me back on patrol. Another could make me start closer to the beginning.

It makes no sense.

Neither does staying a lieutenant in Arkansas while my brother's family learns how to live without him in El Paso.

Late one night, after Poppy asks whether I can come for her birthday and Cady takes the phone only long enough to say good night, I sit at my kitchen table and open an application for a department forty minutes from Sammy's house.

The cursor blinks beside CURRENT RANK.

I stare at it for a long time before typing Lieutenant and moving to the next question.