Page 40 of Surfer's Paradise

Colson:

Meanwhile Adam’s wife is halfway to Montana and we’re pretending that’s not a situation.

Adam:

Stop.

Shay:

You ever text Lila back?

Adam:

This chat is a violation of operational protocol and basic human dignity.

Heath:

So… no?

Adam:

I’m going to reassign all of you to traffic control at MCAS Miramar.

Isaac:

Fine by me.

I need a reason not to come home.

[pause]

Adam:

...yeah.

Colson:

Did we just have a moment?

Chris:

I’m deleting the chat before it gets wholesome.

Shay:

Too late.

We’re all officially compromised.

Heath:

Lila’s gonna love that.

The armory was colder than usual.

Fluorescents buzzing overhead. Metal counters lined with inventory. The click of boots on concrete. Familiar, controlled, clinical.

Isaac cataloged his gear in silence—vest, mags, sidearm, hydration, comms—anything to keep his hands busy. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten more than a protein bar, and his mind wouldn’t shut up.

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