Is it weird that I miss you already?

I smiled. No. Not weird. I’ll call you in a few days.

I didn’t pack. I had cash, my credit card, ID, my phone and charger. I bought a ticket on the last Denver flight of the evening while I gassed up, then I headed to the airport, landing in my back row seat with just a few minutes to spare.

I watched the people on the monitor in front of me speak, able to make out what was happening until the flight attendant offered me a set of headphones. I focused on the show, then the flight magazine, and finally the emergency procedure pamphlet—anything to keep my mind off what I was about to do.

The captain came over the speaker to warn us of upcoming turbulence, and I relaxed back, knowing that if it was longer than five minutes, it would lull me to sleep.

My dreams took me back to Africa; green all around me, the air almost too thick to breathe. My clothes stuck to me, damp with sweat, my rifle slippery in my hand, the strap digging into my neck. Screams and gunfire echoed in the distance. My team wasn’t with me, and a quick glance around the glade where I stood made me recognize I was alone in the jungle with my rifle. I didn’t feel scared, confused, or even tense. Relief washed over me. Not many people understood that it was in the safety of danger that I could hide from my pain.

Maybe Zeke would.

When the wheels touched down, I jerked awake. Babies were crying, the flight attendant was going over instructions over the speaker, and we filed out of the fuselage like cattle. One Uber ride to the Hyatt hotel, and I was flat on my back, staring up at a ceiling in Arlington, Virginia, hours after I was inside a top-secret and high-security facility in Colorado.

My life is weird.

After the nap on the plane, I ended up staring at the ceiling longer than I’d hoped.

My cell phone chirped. First, it was Trex checking that I’d made it okay, and then Zeke called. I let it ring, let the voicemail pick up, but then he called again.

“Hello?” I answered.

“I went down to the bar.”

“McCormack’s?”

“Not at first. The guy’s talked me into it. You’ve ruined me.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“There was a whole gaggle of women there for some makeup convention or training or something.”

“At McCormack’s. Were they lost?”

“Fish said one of them was a local and knew Jerry I guess.”

“Fish told you that,” I said, unconvinced.

“I told you, you’ve ruined me. A few months ago, I would’ve been excited about two dozen beautiful women walking in. All I wanted was to see you.”

“Not my fault.”

“It’s completely your fault.”