"Good." He stands, pulling me up with him. "Because Jess has been planning to teach you our supply inventory system, and if I have to listen to her complain about my organization skills one more time, I'm going to lose it."
I laugh, surprised. "Your organization is terrible."
"See? You're already fitting in."
The rest of the day passes in a blur of motion and tasks. Jess does indeed have opinions about supply organization—strong ones—and spends two hours walking me through their system while we ride. It's actually pretty good, color-coded by urgency and cross-referenced with settlement needs.
"Travis thinks this is overkill," Jess says, gesturing to her clipboard. "But when you need a specific antibiotic at three inthe morning because someone's going septic, you don't want to be digging through unlabeled bags."
"Makes sense to me."
"Thank god. A woman of culture." She grins. "He's been outvoted. Democracy wins."
Eric pulls up alongside us during a water break, asking questions about my old convoy routes. He's building a mental map, he explains, tracking which paths are safer during different seasons.
"The northern pass closes October through April," I tell him. "Snow drifts too deep for ATVs. But the southern route stays clear if you stick to the valley floor."
He scribbles notes, nodding. "Travis mentioned you knew this territory better than most."
"My crew ran these routes for two years." The words still hurt, but less like a knife and more like a bruise. Painful, but survivable.
Ken and Patricia include me in their evening camp setup routine without asking—just hand me tasks like I've always been there. Check the perimeter alarms. Gather firewood. Help with the cooking pot.
It's strange how quickly normal can reassert itself. How easily I slip into the rhythm of a new crew.
But that night, lying in my bedroll, the fear creeps back.
What if I'm getting too comfortable? What if I'm forgetting them—Reggy, Susan, Tommy? What if moving on means leaving them behind?
I must make some sound because Travis appears at my tent entrance.
"Can't sleep?" he asks quietly.
"Trying not to spiral again."
"Want company?"
I nod, and he crawls in, settling beside me in the narrow space. His presence is warm and solid, anchoring.
"What are you spiraling about this time?"
"Moving on. Forgetting them." I stare at the tent ceiling. "It's only been a week since the ambush, and I'm already laughing at Jess's jokes and learning supply systems and acting like everything's normal."
"And that feels wrong."
"Doesn't it? Like I should be more... I don't know. Devastated. Broken. Something other than functional."
Travis is quiet for a moment. "After Alaska, I didn't laugh for three months. Didn't make jokes, didn't relax, barely slept. Just worked and planned and tried to make myself useful enough to justify still being alive."
"Did it help?"
"No. It just made me exhausted and miserable." He shifts to face me. "The thing nobody tells you about grief is that it doesn't look how you think it should. Some days you can barely breathe. Other days you forget for hours at a time that anything bad happened. Both are normal."
"It doesn't feel normal."
"Because you think you owe them constant suffering. Like being happy dishonors their memory." His voice is gentle but firm. "But they didn't die so you could be miserable forever, Hazel. They died trying to do important work. The best way to honor that is to keep doing the work. Even when it means laughing at stupid jokes or learning boring supply systems." Travis takes my hand. "You don't have to choose between honoring them and living your life. You can do both."
"How?"
