Page 28 of Unmade

No matter which family member put their picture out there, they all had one thing in common. They were expressive. Their moods jumped off the screen. Memories frozen mid-laughter or mock-rage.

Sometimes, it became too much, and I took a break for several months before looking them up again.

The Quinns were a tight-knit family, and based on their privacy settings, they didn’t enjoy having others trying to look in. Only Ethan and Ryan’s wife had their accounts fully open. Elise was on Facebook and Instagram, but I only saw her in the comments. She spoke of her sister and kids and plans and… She updated her profile photo often too.

I bet they all missed Jake.

* * *

At six thirty, I crossed the big lobby and headed out. I’d gotten my gym hour, and now I needed my run. More operators and recruits had come into the gym anyway, so it was practically crowded by now.

The sun was rising.

I took a deep breath.

ID card attached to my shorts and tucked into the waistband, timer set on my watch, I’d drained a bottle of water—I was ready to go. I started running on the nearest bike path, and I had my sights set on the cemetery.

One of these days, I’d find the balls to visit my dad’s headstone there. The location had been included in the information we’d gotten, along with a list of his medals. Which might have contributed to whatever shutdown I’d felt in the Army. My dad had actually accomplished good things during his time in the service. A life wasted, for fucking sure, but he’d died a hero. Meanwhile, I was part of the peacetime generation, and our ribbons and acknowledgments were bullshit.

I’d joined right at the tail end of the long war, and I’d obviously never been deployed properly. I’d never seen combat. I’d never risked anything for anyone.

My breathing picked up as I ran alongside the cemetery. Death on one side, the start of rush-hour traffic on the other.

Run me now. Run me now. Run me some more.

Run me now. Run me now. Run me some more.

Motherfucker. Of all the cadences…

By the time I reached Memorial Bridge, my lungs were burning, my heart was pounding, and sweat had drenched my T-shirt.

One mile, no good.

Two miles, no sweat.

Three miles, better yet.

Four miles, all the way.

Five miles, every day.

Upon reaching the Lincoln Memorial, the sun was climbing higher, and I had to head back the same way. I yanked my tee over my head and clutched it tightly, then picked up the pace and ran past one cyclist after another.

This was my favorite part of my morning run, when shit started to hurt. I had the best rhythm, my breaths in sync with my footfalls, my blood pumping, the sun beaming down on my exposed torso. I welcomed every ounce of heat.

One, two, three, four, hey.

One, two, three, four, hey.

I clenched my jaw and crossed the road, and I zigzagged between someone on a fucking scooter and two women with strollers.

One, two, run some more?—

Fucking hell. I was ready for the deprogramming.

The last bit, I pushed myself to the point where I tasted blood, and each breath was like the driest, sharpest punch in my throat. I needed water, stat. But soon enough, I reached Hobbs Circle. The plaza in front of Hillcroft came into view, and I didn’t stop until I was ten feet away from the entrance.

“Christ,” I panted. I checked my watch and stopped the timer, and I nodded once to myself. Thirty-two minutes and seventeen seconds, good enough.

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