“I’m ready to get out of here.”

“I’m sure. Authorities are going to want to debrief you on everything you saw while you were in the compound.”

“I know.”

“The general’s arranged for someone to fly home with you and do it on the plane.”

“Sounds lovely, but I’m not going home.”

He ignored her sarcasm and pulled out his phone. “I need a picture.”

“What? Here? Now? Are you crazy? I look like death on crutches.” And still sort of felt like it too. She swallowed, her throat dry and cheeks hot. Did she have a fever?

“You look . . . not quite that bad,” he said.

“Hey!”

He grinned, then sobered. “You’re alive. That’s all that matters. But the picture’s not for me. I need to prove to Brooke, Heather, Kat, and someone named Ava that you are, in fact, breathing and recovering nicely. Brooke keeps texting, demanding proof.”

“Ah.” Brooke Adams, Heather Fontaine, Katherine—Kat—Patterson, and Ava Jackson. “Ava’s been my best friend since elementary school.” The other three ladies she’d met while they’d all been in Kabul at the same time. Ava had been there, too, for a short time but had never met Gavin. “Okay, you can snap it, but tell them to delete it the minute they’re satisfied I’m fine.”

“Got it.” After he sent the text, he looked her over. “You’re fortunate you had that satellite phone.”

“Fortune had nothing to do with it. Last year, it came in handy, and I’ve carried it ever since. I always knew something like that could happen, was even surprised most days when it didn’t. But I wasn’t going to be caught with no way to call for help.”

“Smart.”

Her smile faded to a frown. “Why is the general insisting I go home? I can recover nicely right here and then get back to work. I’m planning a trip home in about two weeks. Dustin and I coordinated that so we could be home together, but in the meantime, I’ve got stories I’m working on. And now, I’ve got one more.”

Gavin blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “The general didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

He shifted and rubbed a hand over his beard.

“Gavin, what is it?”

“There’s no easy way to say this, but you’ve been discharged from the Army. You’ve been diagnosed as . . . uh . . . as a danger to yourself with recommendations to return home and seek the help of a psychiatrist.”

Gavin wanted to recall his words as soon as they left his mouth. He could tell when she’d finished processing. Her mouth tightened, nostrils flared, and eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry, what?”

He was furious that her father hadn’t told her. “You heard right. You’re being discharged under Other Designated Physical and Mental Conditions.”