As the seconds tick toward midnight, I stare into my locker. Every piece of equipment in there is designed to make me strong. Strong is not how I feel tonight, suiting up.

It feels like going to war, which I have done once. Stateside, when you walk around in your army fatigues, people clap. It happened to me in an Applebee’s once, right after my tour. I was with my wife and my brother. We walked in, and someone—his kid was still actively serving, I think he said later—started up this round of applause for me. We got seated and all through the meal people kept coming over to say “thank you for your service.” Most of those people have no idea about long, quiet nights in the desert. Or how bad it gets when the nights are not so quiet.

I’m home now. I’m going to work, and more and more it feels like going to war. Police officers are supposed to be tough, like soldiers. I’ve been a soldier. That’s how I know there’s no such thing as tough. It’s all an act. There’s too much to fear out there.

“Come on, rook,” O’Donnell says, clapping my shoulder. “Saddle up.”