Chapter 1
Sierra
Theboxshowsupon a Tuesday, taped and labeled and final. My chest tightens before I even reach for it.
It sits outside my door in the narrow hallway of my Austin apartment building, taped up and scuffed at the corners. My name is printed in clean black ink, and beneath it, a return address that makes my stomach drop so hard I taste bile.
Department of Defense.
My fingers hover over it like it might bite.
A month.
It has been a month since the knock. Since uniforms filled my doorway and my knees forgot how to work. Since I heard words that didn’t fit in my life.We’re sorry to inform you…
I stare at the box and do what I’ve gotten very good at lately. I dissociate.
My brain tries to float above my body, above this hallway, above the whole mess of my existence. Like if I step outside myself, it won’t hurt as much.
Spoiler. It still hurts.
I bend down, pick it up, and carry it inside. The cardboard is heavier than it should be, or maybe my arms are weaker now. Everything feels heavier now.
My apartment is small. Cute, if you like “cute” in the sense of “this is all you can afford when student loans and Austin rent team up to bully you.” The air smells like stale coffee and the lavender candle I keep lighting even though it doesn’t fix anything.
I set the box on my kitchen table and stare at it like it might start breathing.
I should open it.
The email came last week. The warning. The polite, sterile words about “personal effects.” I could have braced myself. I could have cried in advance, planned for it, pretended I had control.
I didn’t.
I waited until the box was here, taking up space in my apartment like it belonged.
My throat tightens.
I take a slow breath. Then another. Like I’m about to jump into cold water.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay, Dad.”
I slice through the tape with a butter knife because I can’t find my scissors, and honestly, that feels on brand for my life right now. The cardboard peels back with a harsh ripping sound that’s way too loud in my quiet apartment.
Inside is tissue paper. Bubble wrap. A faint scent that hits me so hard my vision blurs.
A ghost of aftershave and cigars trapped in cloth, metal sharp enough to bring my dad back for half a second.
My chest caves in.
I press my knuckles to my mouth, breathing through it, breathing through the sudden burn behind my eyes. Crying has become this annoying reflex I can’t control. Like my body is a faucet someone forgot to turn off.
I peel back the tissue paper and bubble wrap.
A folded shirt. Neatly packed.
Dog tags in a little plastic bag.
A bent notebook.
