The world at 0500 hours is honest. There are no shadows to hide in, only the stark, gray reality of the pre-dawn light filtering through the barracks window. At Fort Moore, Alabama, my universe was condensed into the sharp, chemical bite of Kiwi shoe polish and the hypnotic, rhythmic friction of a horsehair brush against black leather.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
That disciplined silence shattered when the phone vibrating on the cold metal table began to dance toward the edge. The screen lit up, piercing the gloom with a name that hadn’t graced my notifications in a decade.
Commander Arthur.
That was how I had saved my grandfather’s number when I was twelve. My hand froze in midair, knuckles bleaching white from my grip on the brush. A familiar nausea coiled in my gut—the specific, acidic dread that usually precedes a deployment into a hot zone. He never broke the rules of time. He respected the silence.
Had he fallen? Had his weak heart finally stuttered to a halt?
