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That surprises me.

John loves this.

Not war. Fuck, no. None of us are stupid enough to love war, despite what people like to imagine about men who keep volunteering to come back to it.

But he loves the work.

The team.

The purpose.

The clean simplicity of knowing exactly what is expected of him and exactly who is standing beside him.

“I thought you said you were reenlisting.”

“I was.”

“Was?”

He leans his head back against the wall. “This is it.”

“Your last deployment?”

“My last fucking anything.”

“You’re getting out?”

“Yeah.”

I stare at him.

John finally looks over. “What?”

“I’m waiting for the punch line.”

“There isn’t one.”

“You said this last year.”

“I said I was thinking about it,” John says, his thumb rubbing a line into the dusty floorboards between his knees.

“You spent three straight weeks telling everybody you were buying a fishing boat.”

He shrugs. “I might still buy a fishing boat.”

“You hate fishing.”

“Kammie likes fish.”

“He’s eight.”

“Perfect age for a boat.”

“You’re gonna kill that child.”

“Not before his mother does.”

“Shit, John—”