He shakes his head, and I lower myself onto the cot beside him, moving carefully to protect my wound. The mattress dips under my weight, springs creaking in protest.
"Delaney says you're doing well with the prep."
"She is patient with me." His English is getting better all the time, but stress still brings out the formal phrasing he learned from textbooks rather than conversation. "She explains everything twice, sometimes three times, until I understand."
"That's her job. She's good at it."
"She says I should practice saying their names." Khalid's voice drops, becoming something smaller. His hands are clasped between his knees, knuckles pale. "My family. She says thenames will be hard to say in front of strangers, so I should practice now."
My throat tightens. "You don't have to do this, Khalid. We can find another way."
"There is no other way." He looks at me, fifteen going on forty. "You know this. Reagan knows this. My testimony might be the only thing that makes people listen. And if it doesn't work..." He shrugs, a gesture too old for his years. "At least I will have tried."
"It's not fair."
"No." A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "But you taught me that fair doesn't matter. We do what must be done."
I did teach him that. In safe houses across three continents, while running from Committee hunters and trying to keep him alive. Now I'm watching him take those lessons and apply them in ways I never anticipated.
"I want to practice with you," he says quietly. "Saying their names. Will you listen?"
The request hits like a punch to the gut. Lisa's face flashes through my mind, then Maya's. The names I still struggle to say aloud.
"Yeah." My voice comes out rough. "I'll listen."
Khalid takes a breath. Steadies himself. When he speaks, each name is deliberate, weighted with love and loss.
"My father was Yusuf al-Rashid. He was a teacher. He taught mathematics to children who thought they hated numbers, and by the end of the year, they loved them." Khalid's hands are trembling slightly, but his voice holds firm. "My mother was Fatima. She made bread every morning, and the smell would fill our house. She said you could taste love in good bread."
I don't speak. Don't interrupt. Just witness, because that's what he needs right now.
"My sister Amira was thirteen. She wanted to be a doctor. She practiced on her dolls, wrapping their arms in bandages, telling them to be brave." A pause. A breath. "My sister Noor was nine. She collected flowers, pressed them in books, said she was saving their colors for when winter came."
His voice breaks on the last name, but only for a moment.
"My brother Sami was six. He followed me everywhere. Wanted to be exactly like me when he grew up."
The silence that follows is sacred. I don't try to fill it with comfort or platitudes. There are no words that can touch grief this deep, and pretending otherwise would be an insult to everything he's lost.
"Thank you," Khalid finally says. "For listening."
"Anytime. Every time." I put my hand on his shoulder, feel the tension vibrating through him. "They would be proud of you. What you're doing, the courage it takes. They would be so proud."
He nods, not trusting his voice, and I let the moment stretch until he's ready to move on.
Later that evening, Reagan works with Khalid on his English at the dining table while I quiz him on our emergency procedures for the lodge. He answers without hesitation, rattling off fallback positions and extraction routes with the same ease he brings to conjugating verbs.
Willa checks my wound and declares it healing well, though she still won't clear me for anything more strenuous than walking. Kane coordinates with Tommy at Echo Base, refining the security protocols for the testimony transmission. Mercer rotates through his overwatch positions, silent and watchful.
And through it all, I find myself noticing moments I would have missed before. Reagan laughing at something Khalid says, her hand resting briefly on his arm in encouragement. Willa and Kane sharing a look across the room that speaks to theconnection they've built. Stryker, gruff and guarded, bringing Khalid a cup of tea without being asked.
These people have become something to me. Not a replacement for what I had, but something new. Something worth protecting.
The realization hits harder than I expect.
I'm building a family again.
Not the one I imagined. A journalist who walked into danger with her eyes open. A Syrian teenager who survived the unsurvivable. A team of burned operators who've become brothers in everything but blood. A veterinarian who stitches wounds and refuses to be left behind.
