No, it was more than that. He wanted—needed—to do something good. He needed to know he could use his skills for more than what that stupid company decreed. His family’s money had protected him from a lot, but he hadn’t earned that comfort for himself yet. There had to be some reason he had this talent for inventing—a good reason, not a poisoned one. That need was alive under his skin, an itch he couldn’t reach.

“You sure about this, son?” Uncle Al asked under his breath. “If you’re worried about finals, or—”

“No.” Phillip sucked in his breath and locked eyes with him. “I’m in.”

Uncle Al set his jaw. “I’ll never hear the end of this, you know. This kind of mission . . . It’s what you might call a leap of faith.”

“Then imagine how good it’ll be when I pull it off.”

He tried to smile, but it came off strained. Because it was why Uncle Al fought, wasn’t it? Where Phillip’s parents worked their magic with money and with words, Uncle Al and Phillip worked better with their hands. Phillip wanted to use his hands, his skills, for good. He wanted to do good.

“Well. I know better than to talk you out of something when your mind’s set.” Uncle Al shook his head, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Let’s step outside.”

“They’re just sending you to die in some white boy’s place,” Darius whispered. “What’s the matter with you?”

“This isn’t our war,” Patrick said.

Phillip stood, the room swimming around him. Was he being sent to a certain death? Maybe so.

But it was better than dying in a soft bed while the world burned outside his gates.

Phillip couldn’t recall the specifics of Uncle Al’s brief that morning, but it hardly mattered. Once he arrived at Camp Davis, he learned it was mostly bullshit, anyway. He was rushed through the most basic of basic training; he scored high enough to qualify for Officer Candidate School, but Al assured him there were more important things ahead. Al juggled phrases like “suicide mission” and “adverse conditions” and “of great strategic importance and tactical significance” as if they were ticking grenades. When the rest of Phillip’s fellow trainees got shipped out, Phillip was put on a plane that landed nowhere he recognized, then driven to a concrete windowless bunker where he was trained on radio sets and cryptographic machines. They drilled him on Morse code until he dreamed in dits and dahs.

In the scant few hours between the end of the day’s training and sleep, he kept his hands busy with transistors and wires, with diagrams and switches, but when the instructor peered over his shoulder to ask what he was making, Phillip shrugged it off and told himself, Not yet.