Mac shook his head slightly. “I’m getting better at carrying it.”
They sat with it a while before the night pushed them back to their rooms.
That night, Mac pulled the notebook from under his mattress. Green cover. Curled edges. Handwriting that changed depending on the year. He flipped to a blank page. His hand cramped halfway through. He kept writing. Names. Dates. Things that didn’t belong in reports. One word sat alone on its own line. Panther. He stared at it longer then he should have.
He closed the notebook and shoved it back. Some things were too dangerous to leave exposed. Not because he didn’t trust Melvin. Because the world didn’t care what you trusted.
Later, alone, he sat on his bunk and let it settle. The wolf wasn’t restless. It was hurting. Pack loss was slower. Quieter. Mac pressed his palms into his knees and breathed through it. He wasn’t alone in it anymore. Not because grief had lessened. Because someone had chosen to sit in it with him.
Morning came too soon.
The dust from Hall’s memorial hadn’t fully settled before the base shifted again. Second Platoon rolled back from Ramadi ahead of schedule. Mac felt the change before he heard it as convoy engines and raised voices spread through the motor pool, carrying the unmistakable relief of soldiers coming home.
First Lieutenant Marcus Crawford led Second Platoon.
Mac stood near the TOC as the trucks rolled through the gate. Doors opened. Boots hit gravel. Short bursts of laughter. Marcus was last out, hopping down like the desert hadn’t touched him.
He spotted Mac immediately. “Well, if it isn’t Lieutenant Carter.”
Mac felt his mouth lift. They met halfway. Marcus pulled him into a firm hug. “Good to see you,” Mac said. “Welcome back. How was Ramadi?”
“Busy as hell. Training Iraqi Police is like herding cats. Armed cats. But we made progress.” His smile softened. “Good to be back.”
Mac huffed a laugh before he could stop himself. Of all the metaphors.
Then his tone changed. Marcus’s hand stayed on his shoulder a second longer. “I heard about Hall. I’m sorry.”
Mac nodded. “Yeah. He was a good soldier. Better kid.”
“I’m glad you had him,” Marcus said quietly. “And I’m sorry you lost him.”
That was enough.
Later that evening Marcus found him again, grin back in place. “So who’s this new lieutenant everyone’s whispering about? Apparently you smiled.”
Mac scoffed. “You’re full of shit.”
“Introduce me.”
They headed toward the barracks. Mac knocked on Melvin’s doorframe. “Someone I want you to meet.”
Melvin stood, posture easy but attentive.
Marcus clocked him immediately. Mac clocked it too. Not tension. Awareness. There was a brief pause as Marcus’s gaze sharpened, then eased. Melvin met it without flinching.
“Lieutenant Melvin Hayes,” Mac said. “Lieutenant Marcus Crawford.”
Marcus offered his hand. “Good to finally meet you. Mac’s talked you up.”
Melvin smiled, shaking firmly. “Only good things, I hope.”
Marcus’s grip lingered half a second longer than courtesy required. Not challenge. Confirmation. Mac didn’t miss it.
Marcus laughed. “You’re the one making him look less like he’s about to bite someone. I didn’t think that was possible.”
Mac shot him a look. Melvin chuckled.
They talked. Ramadi first. Long days. Negotiations. Fatigue. Melvin listened without rushing him through the hard parts. Asked about language barriers. What worked. What didn’t. More than once Marcus’s eyes flicked to Melvin’s hands, to the way he stayed still instead of filling space. Recognition. Filed away. The conversation drifted to language. To how words could smooth things over or setthem on fire. Hall’s name surfaced. Not avoided. Not heavy. Just there.
