They all started talking at once—Maria’s words tumbling over Mom’s, her Spanish bleeding into mom’s English:
“We didn’t know how to—”
“Es un milagro—”
“He’s alive—”
“Alive! No está muerto—”
I blinked between them, my pulse pounding in my ears. “What? Who’s alive?”
Hannah’s voice cut through, steady and sharp. “Let’s find a place to sit.”
We ended up in one of those half-dead airport restaurants, the kind that smells like stale fries and burnt coffee. The TV above the bar was tuned to the news, but the sound was off. They slid into a booth across from me. Hannah reached across the table and wrapped her hands around mine. Hers were warm; mine were ice. That look in her eyes turned my stomach. It was the same look people wore when they were about to tell you someone had died.
I swallowed hard. “Who?”
Hannah exhaled slowly. “Honey…it’s not who you think. Or what you think.” She hesitated, then said it anyway. “It’s Jackson.”
I stared at her. The name didn’t fit in my ears. It was a sound that didn’t belong here, didn’t belonganywhere.
I shook my head. “What are you talking about? What about Jackson? Did they find his…his body?”
Mom’s eyes swam, and she swayed like she was slightly drunk.
Maria leaned forward, eyes glassy. “He’s alive, Holly.”
I felt the air punch out of me. “That’s not funny.”
Mom’s voice wavered. “It’s not a joke, sweetheart. He’s home.”
I laughed, sharp and hollow. “Home? That’s impossible. I saw—”
The words jammed in my throat. The funeral. The flag. The sound of rifles and Dalton’s broken voice reading his brother’s eulogy.
Maria reached for my arm, tears slipping free. “They found him. He made it out. He’s alive.”
Alive. I looked at Hannah for confirmation, and she gave me a watery smile before nodding.
The words didn’t land; they just spun around my head until everything started to tilt. My chair scraped back. The sound of it felt miles away. The whole restaurant blurred. I couldn’t breathe. The air was too thin.
Maria was crying openly now, voice rising. Hannah was suddenly beside me, one arm around my shoulders, steering me out of the booth. “Come on, baby. Breathe.”
I tried, but the breath came jagged and shallow. I wasn’t sure if I was moving or if she was just dragging me. The lights smeared into streaks, the hum of the crowd turning into a roar in my ears. Someone bumped into me. Someone apologized. My body didn’t react. My brain was locked betweenhe’s deadandhe’s alive, and neither version made sense.
By the time we made it to the car, I didn’t remember crossing the parking lot.
Maria opened the passenger door, her voice thick and shaking. “He’s at the clubhouse. You want to go there or…?”
I nodded because my mouth wouldn’t work. Maria didn’t ask for clarification; she understood. I got in, buckled my seatbelt, and stared out the window like I was watching someone else’s life roll by.
The car started. The world moved. I didn’t. The hum of the tires filled the silence, steady and relentless. Maria sniffled softly beside me, her hand on mine where it rested rigid on my knee. Hannah’s hands were tight on the wheel and Mom stole glances at me from where she sat in the passenger seat.
I pressed my palms to my knees to stop them from shaking. It didn’t work.
Finally, Mom spoke, her voice quiet and careful. “He looks different. Thinner. Hurt. But he’s alive, Holly. You’ll see.”
Alive.
