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John’s young son, Kamden, sits cross-legged on what must be his dad’s old living-room carpet, wearing pale blue pajamas dotted with white clouds. A crooked plastic tiara perches on his fluffy blond hair, one point flopping forward as if it’s too big.
He has pink smudges around one eye—play makeup, maybe—and hugs a white stuffed rabbit to his chest. He’s grinning so hard his whole face scrunches, revealing the gap where his front tooth hasn’t yet come in.
It’s ridiculous—in the best possible way.
“I appreciate the dedication to fashion,” I acquiesce.
Vasquez pretends to pout about being denied access to the photo, then crawls back to his side and goes back to writing something down in that journal of his.
“You better,” John grunts at me, rubbing his thumb over the picture’s corner when I hand it back to him.
“You good?” I ask as he just continues staring at the little rectangle.
“Fine,” he answers.
“Bullshit.”
“Didn’t ask you.”
“You don’t have to.”
Osbourne snorts. “You two wanna get married? We got witnesses.”
“Jealous?” John asks.
“Deeply,” Garcia deadpans.
“Hey, get in line,” Osbourne calls back.
Smith murmurs something inaudible from the stairwell, then Palinsky opens a ration pouch loud enough to alert half the province.
Vasquez groans, “Fuck, Pal. You trying to summon them with your beef stew?”
“It wasn’t that loud, asshole,” Palinsky says back, rolling his eyes.
The danger of mornings like this is that they can feel normal—even here, with rifles at the ready, radios murmuring, and a man across the street we might have to kill or capture.
Most of war is sitting around.
People who haven’t lived it imagine gunfire and blood twenty-four-seven, not seven men getting on each other’s nerves, being bored almost constantly, and looking at your friend’s photographs every time he gets a bit too deep into his feelings.
John is most definitely in his feelings.
“What happened?” I ask, quieter now.
“Nothing,” he answers.
“John.”
His jaw shifts. “Court got moved.”
“To when?”
“Week after we’re back.”
“Well, you’ll be there. Isn’t that a good thing?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs.
