Page 46 of Beckett
“Coop?” The word was barely a whisper, but it wasthere. Beckett was coming back.
“Yeah, it’s me.” Coop talked to him for a while longer about…everything. About training with some SWAT guys. About how the water dispenser in the Warrior Security gym was going to have to be replaced because it was leaking. About some sort of new tactical vest he found in Billings that he really liked.
The whole time, his hand stayed anchored on Beckett—shoulder, forearm, whatever was within reach. No hesitation, no self-consciousness. Just steady, grounding contact. Because between them, there was no room for awkwardness. No need to explain or excuse. It was simple, unspoken reassurance—one soldier telling another he still had his back.
Eventually, Coop nodded at me, then looked back down at Beckett. “Okay, Beck. We’re going to help you sit up now, okay?”
Together, we got Beckett into a sitting position. He swayed, disoriented, but his eyes were focusing now. They found mine, and I saw recognition followed immediately by shame.
“Audra.” My name came out broken. “Did I—did I hurt?—”
“No. I’m fine.” I didn’t show him the bruises on my arm. What good would it possibly do?
“Come on,” Coop said. “Let’s get you up. Walk it off.”
It took both of us to get Beckett to his feet. He leaned heavily on Coop, his legs unsteady. They made it about ten feet before Beckett pulled away, needing to stand on his own even though he swayed.
“The dogs,” he said, voice rough. “Need to… The dogs help.”
“Yeah, I know,” Coop said. “Let’s go see them. Audra, can you let the dogs he’s been working with out of their kennel?”
They walked slowly toward the training area. I let out the security dogs, who knew exactly where to go. I followed at a distance, not sure if I should stay or go, help or hide. Even Jet trotted alongside Beckett, pressing against his leg every few steps as if making sure he was still there.
When they reached the training yard, Beckett opened the gate with shaking hands. Duke bounded over immediately, followed by Rosie and Atlas. They surrounded him, tails wagging but energy subdued, like they sensed his fragility.
Beckett sank to his knees in the middle of them, and they pressed close. Duke rested his massive head on Beckett’s shoulder. Rosie wiggled into his lap. Atlas leaned against his back. Even from the fence where I stood, I could see the tension slowly leaving Beckett’s body as the dogs anchored him to the present.
Coop walked back to me. “Grab that camp chair. He’s going to be there awhile.”
I brought the chair over, and Coop set it up just outside the fence where we could watch Beckett work with the dogs. He’dstarted running them through basic commands—sit, stay, heel. His movements were mechanical at first, muscle memory more than conscious thought. But gradually, they became smoother, more natural.
“He’ll be okay,” Coop said. He must have seen the worry on my face. “This helps him more than anything else.”
“How often do these sorts of episodes happen?”
“Less than it used to.” Coop leaned against the fence, eyes never leaving Beckett. “Maybe every few months now. Used to be weekly when he first got back.”
“From Afghanistan?”
He glanced at me, evaluating. “That’s Beck’s story to tell. But yeah, his last deployment. Bad mission. Lost someone he was supposed to protect.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “The thing about Beckett is he’d kept everyone safe his whole career. Never lost a single person under his command. Until that last mission.”
I watched Beckett work with Duke on heel commands, his movements becoming more fluid, more present. “Someone named Rodriguez?”
“You heard him say the name?” When I nodded, Coop sighed. “Sergeant First Class Miguel Rodriguez. Good soldier. Better man. Had a wife and two kids waiting for him in Texas.”
The weight of that settled in my chest like lead. A family destroyed. No wonder Beckett carried such guilt.
“It wasn’t his fault,” Coop continued. “Official investigation cleared him completely. Hell, he got a commendation for getting the rest of his unit out alive. But try telling him that.”
We both looked out at Beckett.
“The dogs help,” Coop said, changing the subject. “They don’t judge. Don’t ask questions. Just offer what he needs—purpose, routine, unconditional acceptance. Some days, they’re the only things that can pull him back from the edge.”
As if to prove his point, Duke performed a perfect recall, racing across the yard at Beckett’s whistle, skidding to a stop at his feet with tail wagging furiously. Beckett actually smiled—small, tired, but real.
“I should go,” Coop said after another ten minutes. “He won’t want me here when he’s fully back. Too much like admitting weakness.”
“But you just got here. Shouldn’t someone?—”
