Page 114 of Theta

I glance at Story. “You didn't fill them in?"

Anselm answers for her. "She would not discuss anything without you."

I scrub my face with both hands. "It's seriously only been a few days?"

"Less than a week since Story vanished," Dad says.

"Feels like a different life. It's honestly kind of hard to remember anything from before the container." I feel…shaky. Inside. Tightly wound. Fragile. "Shit." My throat burns, aches, tighter than a piano wire.

Maybe I’m more affected by time in that lightless hellhole than I realized.

Story sets her plate and fork aside and reaches for my hand. "Kills? You okay, baby?"

Mom, Dad, Anselm, and Selah trade glances at the nickname and the endearment.

“Yeah, that happened too," I mutter.

"We know," all four say in unison.

Story squeezes my hand. "What's up?"

I shake my head, words bubbling up and evaporating before I can get them out, dissolving in the infernal heat clogging my throat.

I close my eyes, but the darkness is oppressive, and suddenly I’m back in that container. I shake my head again. "Fuck."

"It's okay, sweetheart," Mom says. "You don't need to talk about it right now."

I wrench my eyes open. I can't stop the haze from leaking down my cheeks, and I drop my gaze to my lap, embarrassed to the point of physical pain.

"Lemme in," Dad growls, his voice gruff. Mom shuffles aside, and he perches on the edge of the bed, scrubs his hand over my hair and then grabs a handful and tugs my head back so I'm forced to look at him; despite the roughness of the gesture, it's affectionate, loving. Which doesn’t fucking help me control my shit.

"Goddammit, Dad."

"Hey.” His voice is hard, but it’s a shell of hardness over tender intent. "You listen to me, son."

I nod, not looking at him.

"You fuckin' look at me when I'm talking to you, boy." He waits until I lift my eyes to his. "You don't have a single goddamn motherfucking thing to be ashamed of." He wipes a thumb under my eyes like I'm three all over again. "This ain’t weakness."

"Never seen you cry," I mumble.

"I have," Mom says. "A few times."

Dad cuffs my cheek, leaves his hand there. “You held your shit together when it mattered, son." He sighs. "My first firefight, I was nineteen. Brand new grunt fresh outta training, didn't even have to fuckin' shave yet. Scared outta my goddamn mind. I froze. The whole fight happened without me. Couldn't move a muscle. Funny thing is, not one round came anywhere close to me. I was so fuckin' embarrassed and ashamed I cried like a little boy on the ride back to base."

"Bullshit," I say.

"It's true!" h e says. "Hold up." He dials a number from his contacts.

It rings a few times and then a deep male voice I don’t recognize answers. "Commander Harris. Been a minute. What can I do for you, ol' buddy?"

"Answer a quick question."

"Shoot."

"My first firefight."

The man on the other side chuckles. "Oh man. I was sure I'd been stuck with a NOF." He pronounces it n-AHW-ff.