“I know what a call sign is.”
Mason laughed.
“I’m sure you do.”
I took a sip of water.
Not beer.
I never drank in rooms I had not cleared.
Mason leaned closer.
“Let me guess. If you had one, it’d be something scary like… Stapler Six.”
The younger Marines laughed harder this time.
One of them slapped the table.
Maddox did not move.
My phone buzzed once in my pocket.
I ignored it.
Mason saw the small shift of my shoulder.
“Oh, sorry,” he said. “Important national security text?”
“Mason,” I said quietly.
There was warning in my voice.
Not anger.
Warning.
He heard it.
He always heard it.
He just hated that he heard it.
Because when we were little, I was the one who knew when Dad was about to explode.
I was the one who knew which floorboards creaked.
I was the one who knew when to hide the car keys, when to run the bath so Mom couldn’t hear shouting, when to tell Mason to stay in his room and not be brave for no reason.
