"Because I want to understand how this works. How you take care of him. How you earned the trust of a kid who watched his entire family die because of people like you."
"People like me killed his family. I just happened to be the one who decided not to let him die with them. That's not earning trust. That's basic human decency showing up three hundred forty-six deaths too late."
"You check on him at night."
Dylan's expression shifts. Guarded.
"Khalid told you that."
"He said you read to him. In Arabic. Even though your pronunciation is terrible."
Dylan almost smiles. "It is terrible. But it's the only thing that helps when the nightmares get bad. Hearing his language. Remembering he's not back in that village."
"What do you read?"
"Whatever he wants. Sometimes children's stories. Sometimes the Quran. Usually he just wants someone to stay until he falls asleep." Dylan's jaw works. "Doesn't make me a good person. Just makes me someone trying to keep a traumatized kid alive."
"It makes you someone who cares. That's more than most people in your position would do."
"Most people in my position would have followed orders and eliminated the witness. Setting the bar at 'didn't murder a child' is pretty low."
"And yet you cleared it. While Morrison didn't. You saved Khalid. You're building a case against the Committee. You're trying to make better choices. Stop punishing yourself for not being perfect and accept that you're better than you were."
Dylan stares at me. His expression shifts again.
"You should get some rest. Tomorrow we start mapping Webb's connections to Morrison's network."
He leaves before I can respond. But the conversation stays with me. Dylan checking on Khalid at night. Reading to him in terrible Arabic. Staying until the nightmares pass.
The guardian beneath the warrior. The man trying so hard to be worthy of a traumatized boy's trust.
Hours pass. Sleep won't come. Khalid's testimony plays on loop. Dylan's admission about checking for nightmares. The way they've built something that looks like family out of shared trauma and impossible choices.
Movement in the hallway. Quiet footsteps. Late enough that everyone should be asleep.
I move to my door. Open it slightly. Peer into the darkened hallway.
Dylan stands outside Khalid's room. His hand rests on the doorframe. Listening.
After a moment, he opens the door. Disappears inside.
I shouldn't follow. Should give them privacy. But curiosity overrides caution.
The hallway is dark enough that I can move without being seen. Khalid's door is cracked open. I position myself where I can see inside without being obvious.
Khalid is curled on his side. Shaking. Not violently, but enough to show he's not fully asleep. Nightmare.
Dylan sits on the edge of the bed. His hand rests on Khalid's shoulder. Gentle. Grounding.
"You're safe. You're here. It's not real anymore." Dylan's voice is barely above a whisper. Steady. Calm. "Breathe. Just breathe. You're not in the village. You're with me. You're safe."
Khalid's shaking gradually subsides. His breathing evens out. Still asleep but no longer trapped in whatever horror his subconscious conjured.
Dylan stays. Doesn't move. Just sits there with his hand on Khalid's shoulder, keeping vigil like he's done this a thousand times before.
Then he reaches for the book on the nightstand. Opens it. Begins reading in quiet, halting Arabic. His pronunciation is terrible, just like Khalid said. But the words flow steady and rhythmic, creating a pattern that pulls Khalid deeper into sleep.
I watch for longer than I should. Watch Dylan read to a traumatized kid who needs to hear his language to remember he's safe. Watch the gentleness in how he turns pages. The patience in how he waits for Khalid's breathing to fully settle before he stops reading.
