I scrambled up, the world tilting on a nauseating axis as I spat out a mouthful of blood and sand. My limbs felt heavy, disconnected, as if I were moving through deep water. “Brody! Status!” I tried to scream, but my voice was a broken rasp, lost in the chaotic white noise in my head.
He was down, slumped in the shadow of a jagged boulder. His gear was shredded, the armor plates cracked, and a sickening, dark stain was already blooming across the side of his vest. I dropped next to him, my knees hitting the gravel with a jar I didn’t feel. The fear was no longer a weight; it was a cold, paralyzing poison in my veins.
“I’m hit, Ry,” he gasped. It wasn’t the shout of a soldier calling for a medic; it was a soft, wet sound. His eyes, usually dancing with some wicked joke, were clear and terrifyingly calm, fixed on a point far beyond the dusty ridge. “It’s bad. I can feel the cold.”
“No. No, you’re fine!” I snarled, a frantic, desperate denial ripping through me. I tore open my medical kit, my hands shaking so violently I nearly dropped the scissors. I ripped back his top, and the sight nearly broke me. The trauma was massive, a relentless, crimson flood that pulsed with every slowing beat of his heart. I slammed a pressure bandage onto the wound,leaning my entire body weight into it, my teeth gritted until they felt ready to shatter. “Hold on, Brody! Don’t you dare close your eyes! I’ve got you! Just hold the fucking line!” But the blood was everywhere, hot and slick, soaking through my gloves and staining my sleeves, mocking my every effort to keep his life inside him.
He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my bicep with a final, surprising strength, pulling me down until our foreheads touched. The world, the gunfire, the dust, and the unit all vanished. We were alone in a small, terrible bubble of blood-scented air. He looked at me, and I saw it then, the final, absolute acceptance in his gaze. He wasn’t fighting anymore. He was letting go.
“Ry… listen,” he whispered, a thin trail of blood tracing the corner of his mouth. “It’s over. I’m going home.” He choked, a wet sound that made my heart fracture. “Look after Anna and Cory. Tell him… tell him his old man loves him more than the stars.” He squeezed my arm once, a desperate, fading connection. “He needs a man like you, Ry. Promise me. Promise me you’ll watch their six.”
“I promise! I swear to god, I promise, Brody!” I sobbed, the tears carving clean tracks through the grime on my face. “Just don’t leave me! I can’t do this without you!”
His eyes clouded over, the light retreating into the gray, and his grip went instantly, devastatingly slack. He was gone. The silence that followed was the loudest thing I had ever heard.
My best friend. My brother. The only person who truly saw me was now just a heavy, still weight against my chest. I sat there in the dirt, pressing down on a heart that had stopped beating, my gloves saturated with so much blood, screaming his name into the empty valley until my throat was raw. The explosion had isolated us; the rest of the patrol was a mile out, their radios lost to the interference of the ridge. I couldn’t leave him. I couldn’tleave him to be reclaimed by the sand. I wrestled his body onto my shoulders, the dead weight of my world nearly buckling my knees. Every stumbling step back toward the base was torture. My muscles burned, my lungs felt like they were full of glass, and my mind was fracturing with every jolt of his head against my shoulder. I didn’t carry him back as a fallen comrade; I carried him as the final, precious piece of my own soul that I refused to let go of. I wouldn’t let the desert have him. I wouldn’t let him go.
46
Letter
Jackson,
I lost him. He’s gone.
Splash
47
Jackson
I stare down at the letter I’ve just read from Splash. Tears stream down my face for a friend I never got to meet, and for a man I truly care about. He didn’t explicitly name Brody in the note, but I knew exactly who he meant.
Fuck, what am I meant to say? I can barely keep my own feelings in check, let alone know what to write to bring a soldier comfort.
Just then, Logan bangs loudly on my truck window. I jump immediately, scrambling to wipe my eyes. Fuck, I don’t think I was fast enough. It’s so embarrassing to let him see me cry.
“Er, are you ok, Hayes?” he asks as he opens my driver’s side door.
I can’t speak. There is a massive, suffocating lump in my throat, and I can’t form a single word. Silently, I just pass him the letter as more tears roll down my face.
Logan reads it, his face falling. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, Hayes. What can we do? We’re here for you, man, always.”
“They won’t let him go, will they? To the funeral, I mean,” I choke out. “He still has months left of his deployment. Fuck!” I slam my head back into the headrest. I need to get out on the ice. I desperately need that familiarity of my blades, the sound of them carving across the rink. I grab my gear bag and climb out of the truck.
“Hey, we need to talk to Donovan,” Logan says, keeping pace with me as we head inside. “You know his brother is deployed. I bet he will know what happens next.”
I didn’t wait for Logan. I didn’t wait for anything. I ripped open my gear bag, threw on my skates, and burst through the doors leading to the rink. The air instantly hit me—cold, clean, and smelling of pure ice. It was my sanctuary. I didn’t care that practice was over or that the lights were dimmed; I needed the familiar scrape of my blades against the surface to silence the screaming in my head.
I skated aimlessly, not practicing drills, just pushing off and gliding, carving wide, messy circles. The motion was the only thing that felt real. Every push was an attempt to outrun the image of Splash alone, grieving his best friend. The ice was meant to be freedom, but tonight it was just an empty, cold space where I could finally feel the weight of his pain. I leaned into a sharp turn, the spray of ice crystals scattering around me like shattered glass.I need to be there. I need to hold him.
A shadow appeared at the boards, silent and steady. I didn’t need to look up to know it was Donovan. He hopped onto the ice, not carrying a stick, just gliding easily toward me.
“Logan told me about the letter,” Donovan said, his voice low enough not to carry, but strong enough to cut through the quiet.
I stopped abruptly, shoulders slumped. “He’s all alone, Cap. They won’t even let him go to the funeral, will they?. He’s got a few months left.”
Donovan skated alongside me, matching my slow pace. “I know, Jackson. My brother, Nate, has seen things too. That kind of pain… It’s a silent killer.” He paused, his gaze steady and compassionate. “You can’t go over there, but you are his anchor. That’s a different kind of strength.”
