I was woken at four in the morning when a bus with squeaky brakes stopped somewhere on Columbus. I lay still for a few minutes, letting the warmth of the sheets and the sound of Caden’s breathing soak into my senses.

All of the familiar aches were present, along with complete sexual satisfaction. I turned onto my side and tucked my hands under my cheek. He looked like himself again. Even with his face slack in sleep, I could tell he was back.

My Caden.

My captain.

We’d get through this.

Something had happened. I didn’t know if it was a breakthrough or the first step in a thousand, but something.

Five days since he’d needed to hurt me. If it was more, or even five again, we’d know.

In four days, we’d know if we could change the course of this thing. Maybe stop it in its tracks. Hope fluttered my heart, and I knew I wasn’t getting any sleep.

I slipped out of bed, went to the bathroom, and put on a big T-shirt to go downstairs for a glass of water.

Most PTSD treatments involved sensory or mental exposure to the seed trauma. Caden hadn’t landed on exactly what he needed to be exposed to, and I’d thought whatever Ronin was working on would let us circumvent the trauma that either didn’t exist or that Caden wouldn’t admit to.

That was down the shitter obviously, as was any help from Ronin.

But we had this. I was sure of it.

I rinsed out the glass and went through the living room to the staircase. Caden’s jacket was piled on the floor. I picked it up by the collar and shook it out. An envelope came out partway.

The army seal was in the corner.

Probably a pension notice or something. I hung up his coat and took the letter to the second floor, where he kept his office. I didn’t turn on the light. I knew what was there. Bookshelves with thick medical texts. A glass-topped desk with a computer. A phone. A leather chair in the corner.

I was about to leave the envelope on his desk, where he’d see it, when something I’d noticed before jabbed at me. There was no sending address or stamp.

Why would that be?

If the army had sent him something, it would be via mail, with a canceled stamp and a sealed flap. This flap wasn’t sealed. The only way he’d get an open, unmarked envelope from the US Army was if he met with… who? Where?

Why?

I couldn’t even imagine.

Prying into my husband’s life wasn’t a habit, but I wasn’t snooping to see if he was cheating on me or spending money he shouldn’t. I expected garbage. A fundraising flyer or a mentor request.

My expectations were lies I told myself to cover for the fact that I had no business opening that envelope or sliding out the paper. Leaning into the window to catch the light from the streetlamps, I opened the single page. It stretched like arms folded in anger slowly unbending for an embrace.

I read it once.

Then again, clutching the thin cotton of my shirt. I twisted it as if my heart was in my fist and by God, I was going to wring it dry before it killed me.

“Honey?” He was at the office door in his pajama bottoms, framed in the molding around the opening. Dark behind him. Lit with the barest window light.

He was a god and a saint. He lined my soul, and as I stood there with my shirt twisted in my fist, he was…

I held out the letter.

…the heart I wanted to wring dry.

“Greyson?”

“No,” I said, not denying my name but his. His name did not belong on that paper. “This is a mistake.”

Caden came into the room with his hand out for the letter, brows knotted with curiosity and concern. He didn’t know what it was.

Hope kept the tears at bay. Hope was the only cure for disappointment—if it didn’t kill you first. Hope stuck harder and took a piece of you when it was ripped away.

He opened the letter for the briefest moment then folded it again.

“It’s a mistake,” I said.

“Let me explain.”

No. No-no-no. Hope ripped away, leaving pieces of itself behind. I was made of spit and tears, but I held on to them. “It’s a mistake, Caden!”

“It’s not. I mean, it may be, but—”

“It’s not?”

Hope was a fish hook, barbed to leave a jagged hole when removed.

“It’s just the reserves.”

“Just? You fuck.” I punched his shoulders with both fists. He didn’t fall. He needed to fall so hard he’d break time. Then we could go back ten minutes, before I knew. Back a day, before the letter existed. A decade, before the war. “You fucking fuck. How could you do this?”

He held up both hands. “Just take it easy.”

I snatched the letter from him and tore it up. “I do not accept this.” I threw the pieces at him. “I love you. You are my life, you fucking shit.” I punched his chest and he did not defend himself. “I break for you. Do you understand? I break every damned day and you do this? Why? You think getting away from me is going to cure you?”

“It’s not that.” He grabbed my arms before I could punch him again.

“What then?” I tried to yank away, but he wouldn’t let me.

“The treatment. The experimental protocol. I need to be in the system or I don’t qualify.”

I buckled. I couldn’t hold myself up. The floor was despair and I needed to melt into it, flatten myself against it like spilled water, spread and evaporate. Only his hands kept me upright, saving me and killing me with equal force.

“It’s IRR. I don’t have to do anything. They’ll keep me off active duty. Please. Listen—”

“You’re going to get called. Do you understand, you stupid, stupid man? They’re going to call you back.”

I tried to get away, but he held me harder. “They’re not. Greyson. Listen to me. They’re not calling me.”

“You’re going to get stop-lossed. They’re going to deploy you, send you away, and I swear, Caden, you’re not a soldier. You’re not meant for it. They’re going to send you back broken.” My anger melted in its own heat, dripping away in thick tears.

That time he’d gone off-base with a medevac. He’d been so brave and strong inside the hospital walls, and it all fell apart on the front lines. He returned covered in blood, unable to function or process what he’d seen. He wasn’t the same after that. His arrogance lost its edge after one time on the front lines. What if he was sent out again? How could he so blithely assume he’d survive it? “Why? Why did you do this?”

“I have to. I can’t let you keep taking the brunt of my sickness. It’s hurting you. I’m hurting you. Grey, I’m…” His face tightened as if he held back his own tears. “I’m afraid I’m going to kill you.”

He barely got the last word out before breaking. He let my arms go, and I held him. We bent together, falling as if we’d been detonated, limbs wrapped together like a smoking pile of twisted metal beams, weeping for the end of the life we’d tried to live.