And from one of the yachts—laughter.
Female laughter. Bright and easy, drifting across the water.
My chest tightened.
Was she there?
Joy?
I forced my attention back to Silas, who was watching me with that unreadable expression he did so well.
"All the checks done?" I asked, setting my plate down.
"Yeah," Silas said. "Doctor and the shrink will be here soon."
I stopped mid-bite. "You're serious."
"Yeah."
"Today?"
"Now," Silas said. "But don't worry. It's more of a formality."
I wasn't sure I believed him, but I finished breakfast anyway, the food disappearing faster than it should have.
When the doctors showed up—a man and a woman, both professional, both calm—they led me to a room I hadn't seen yet. Clean. Clinical. But not cold.
The physical was straightforward. Injuries. Range of motion. Any lingering pain. The doctor asked questions like he already knew the answers, checking boxes on a form without judgment.
The psych eval was trickier.
The woman—Dr. Amon, she'd said—sat across from me with a tablet and a gentle smile.
"Tell me about your last deployment," she said.
Notmission. Notcontract. Deployment.
Like I was still military. I guess, technically, I still was.
I answered carefully. Honestly, but not completely. She asked about stress. About sleep. About moments where I'd felt out of control.
She never said PTSD.
I appreciated that.
By the end, she nodded, made a few notes, and stood.
"You're good to go," she said.
Just like that.
Silas walked me back to the front door. "That's it for today."
I almost asked.
Almost said her name.
Is Joy here?
