For a fraction of a second, confusion flickered across his face.
He hadn’t expected it.
I turned my back and walked through the kitchen door.
Across the patio.
Past Lauren cutting cake with a plastic knife.
Past the bouncy castle, catering tables, and relatives who had already been told I was a cold, ungrateful thief.
That night, I sat inside my truck outside my apartment with my forehead pressed against the steering wheel.
Eleven minutes.
I watched the dashboard clock.
The hard plastic pressed a ridge into my skin.
I could survive incoming fire in a combat zone.
I could process an ambush, return fire, and stabilize a wounded soldier without my hands shaking.
Betrayal from your own blood was different.
It didn’t kill quickly.
It hollowed you out from the inside.
I took a slow breath.
Four seconds in.
Hold.
Eight seconds out.
The tactical breathing pattern drilled into us during survival training.
