Baxter continued over the low hum of the fan. “The 103rd’s tempo is aggressive, but they specifically requested us. That means we’re being watched and evaluated from day one. Any questions?”
Silence.
Baxter’s eyes swept the room and then, clearly, “You’ll be representing the company. What you do out there reflects on all of us.”
His gaze passed over Mac, then Melvin, measured, neutral, a single nod.
“Carry on.”
Outside the TOC the sun was already brutal, beating down with that dry, unforgiving heat that made everything feel harder than it needed to be. Melvin stood still, patrol cap in one hand, squinting at the too-blue sky like it might offer answers. Mac stepped beside him, close enough to feel like intention, not accident.
“You holding up?” Mac asked, quiet and even.
Melvin didn’t answer right away. “Yeah,” he said eventually. “Just processing.”
A pause. The kind that held more than silence.
They stood side by side, shadows long and sharp in the dust, until Melvin asked, “So. Joint patrols.”
Mac nodded. “You’ll be bouncing around. Different battle rhythm.”
“Fewer check-ins.”
“Yeah.”
Melvin looked over, searching his face. “You gonna be okay with that?”
Mac didn’t look away. “Not really.”
Melvin gave him a small, tired smile. “Me either.”
For a moment the world narrowed. Just them in the sun under the weight of everything they couldn’t say, but the job didn’t care. You carried what you could. You left the rest behind. They didn’t touch. They didn’t linger. They just stood there, and then they moved.
Later that evening, word traveled fast. Melvin heard it low in the chow hall. Someone from another company muttering, “Alpha’s getting too cozy with the grunts,” someone else laughing, someone mentioning Hayes. Not overt. Not yet. Melvin didn’t flinch, but he felt it anyway. That quiet tightening in the room when a rumor found a spine.
He didn’t see Mac at the DFAC that night.
Sleep didn’t come easy. Melvin lay staring at the ceiling until the fan’s hum became its own kind of torture. Sometime in the hours before dawn he heard boots in the corridor, a door opening and closing with too much care.
By the time he got dressed and stepped out into the cool night air, he already knew where he was going. The wire fence, the same path, the same crate, unchanged and completely different.
He saw Mac first. Silhouette against the thin strip of starlight, shoulders rigid, gaze fixed on the horizon like the answer was written out there.
Melvin climbed up beside him and settled in.
“You holding up?” he asked softly.
Mac didn’t answer right away. Then: “Not really.”
Melvin angled his body slightly, reading the tension in Mac’s shoulders, the way his hands curled like he was bracing for impact. “Dream?” Melvin asked.
Mac nodded.
“Want to talk about it?”
“No,” Mac said, and then, softer, “Yes.”
Melvin waited.
