The air between us feels charged. Dangerous.
"We need to focus," I say, but I don't move away.
"I am focused." His voice has dropped lower. Rougher. "Just... not entirely on tactics."
"Dutch."
"I know. There's a battle coming." He forces his attention back to the maps, but I see the tension in his shoulders. Feel the heat still radiating between us. "The non-combatants. What if we create a defended position here, close enough for support but far enough to minimize risk?"
We compromise. Non-combatants evacuate to a protected position nearby that’s close enough to provide support if needed, far enough to avoid the worst of the fighting. Dutch maps trap positions while I assign combat roles.
He works tirelessly. Never complains, never asks for recognition, never tries to earn forgiveness through effort. Just does the job, makes himself useful, accepts whatever contempt I throw at him without flinching.
Except it's not contempt anymore. Hasn't been for days.
It's something far more dangerous.
It would be easier if he made excuses. If he justified or explained or rationalized. Instead he just carries it.
"He's not what I expected," Harry says during a supply check.
"What did you expect?"
"Someone who'd defend himself more. Argue that he made the right call given the information he had." Harry shrugs. "That'swhat most people do when they make a mistake that kills people."
"Most people haven't spent three years running rescue operations to make up for the people they couldn't save."
"Is that what he's doing?"
I watch Dutch across the compound, demonstrating trap placement to a group of volunteers. Patient, thorough, completely focused on keeping people alive.
"I think that's exactly what he's doing. And I think it's never going to be enough."
"Sounds familiar."
"Shut up, Harry."
He grins and leaves me to my thoughts.
The night before Old Hawk's expected attack, I find Dutch on the wall, staring out at the dark forest. The moonlight catches the hard planes of his face, the tension in his shoulders.
"You should sleep," I say.
"So should you."
"Can't."
"Me neither."
We stand in silence. I should leave. Go check the defenses again, review the evacuation protocols, do anything except stand here with the man who haunts my worst memories.
Instead I ask: "What did you hear? When you listened to my distress call?"
He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. Then: "Gunfire. Screaming. Someone calling for help on every frequency. Begging." His voice is rough. "You said the walls were breachedin three places. Said you had maybe twenty defenders against a herd of fifty-plus zombies and a dozen raiders. Said you were going to die."
"I thought we were."
"It sounded like you were. Every simulation ended with me reaching Clearwater too late to help."
