“Eight here,” Mac said. “Four sisters. Three brothers. I’m the baby boy. One of my sisters is in grad school in New York right now.”
Melvin glanced up. “What’s she studying?”
“Psychology,” Mac said. “Which mostly means she analyzes me every time I call.”
Melvin’s mouth twitched. “Sounds like a dangerous person to grow up with.”
Mac huffed a quiet breath.
Melvin blinked. “Eight though? That’s impressive.”
“My mom’s a saint. My dad was more ghost than parent.”
Not heavy. Just honest. Different histories. Same armor.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, just full.
Before either of them could say more, two soldiers approached the table with trays balanced in careful hands.
“Mind if we join, sir?”
Mac waved them in without hesitation. “Of course not.”
The wiry one sat first. “Specialist Derek Hall. This here’s Specialist Matthew Reynolds.”
“Reynolds,” the other added with a grin, tray piled high. “Good to meet you, sir.”
“You too,” Melvin said, shaking both hands. “You been here long?”
“Hall’s the resident old man,” Reynolds said. “Six months. He got stuck on the advance party.”
“And Reynolds is still figuring out which end of the rifle points at the bad guys,” Hall shot back.
Mac snorted quietly. “Ignore them. They’ve been arguing about that since January.”
Melvin smiled despite himself. The banter came easy, worn in by long weeks together.
“Where you from, LT?” Reynolds asked between bites.
“New York.”
“Detroit,” Reynolds replied.
“That explains the tray,” Hall muttered. “Man eats like he’s stockpiling.”
Reynolds shrugged. “You never know.”
“What about you?” Melvin asked Hall.
“Texas. Military brat.”
They talked about home for a few minutes. Real pizza. Sweet tea. Quiet mornings without sirens. It was ordinary in a way that almost felt defiant. Then the siren went off.
A high wail cut through everything. “INCOMING, INCOMING, INCOMING.”
“DFAC bunker. Move,” Mac snapped.
They pushed into the concrete shelter. Heat clung even underground.
