I opened the back door and slid inside.
The seat fabric was worn and soft. It smelled like old peppermint and dust and something faintly floral, like the remains of a long-used air freshener. It was a stark contrast to the polished leather waiting in the family car ahead.
Mrs. Henderson glanced back at me, her mouth tight. “Honey,” she whispered, “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I said automatically, though my voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. “Thank you for being here.”
She nodded, blinking quickly, and eased the car into gear as the procession began to move.
As we rolled forward, I watched the Escalade disappear around the bend, its dark windows reflecting the gray sky.
My right hand rose on its own, as if pulled by instinct, and pressed against the left breast pocket of my uniform.
There was paper there. A faint crinkle. And the hard metal edge of something else.
Seven days ago, Andrew had given me an envelope and a USB drive.
A mission.
In the muted hum of Mrs. Henderson’s engine, I forced myself to breathe slowly.
“Calm down,” I murmured under my breath, not to her, not to anyone in the car. “Steady.”
My mind reached for what had carried me through the hardest places. Not rage. Not panic.
Words.
A verse that had anchored me when the ground under me felt unstable.
Blessed be the Lord, my rock, who trains my hands for war and my fingers for battle.
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