Chapter Eighteen – Three Thousand Miles Away #2
But I don’t know how to put that in a text, and I know it wouldn’t help, so I just say: We’re fine too.
Monday morning, the Use-of-Force Review Board is set for ten o’clock. But like every day lately, we’re at the unit before six. Every second drags. By the time it’s nine-thirty, it feels like I’ve been sitting in this chair for a year.
We finally stand and walk to the conference room.
A few minutes later, Captain Spilgen enters through the side door, followed by Lieutenant Borgianni and a stiff guy in a gray suit I don’t recognize, probably Legal Affairs.
Sergeant Wilsbone walks in last, posture tight. He gives us a short nod and takes a seat near the back wall.
The air is thick with pheromones from the three of us. We’re all on edge. After being treated fairly in the first IA interview, everything feels unpredictable.
But when Spilgen starts speaking, his report of the incident is clean. No spin, just facts. The questions don’t feel like traps. It all feels... fair. Like how it would be if we were human officers. When they finish questioning us, we wait for the catch.
The Captain clears his throat. “Internal Affairs will finalize their paperwork,” he says. “Pending no criminal charges, this board is recommending no further action. You’re cleared for full duty, effective immediately.”
It was easy, and fair, and strange, and it should feel like a win.
I know that this moment matters. That something big has shifted.
That here, our place among humans is different from what it was everywhere else.
But I can’t feel any of it. I can’t access relief or even surprise.
All I feel is the cold weight of our bond with Jo.
The next morning, when I text her, she’s not in Portland anymore.
Idaho City now. Everything is fine. You?
I say we’re fine too. But I have no idea what she’s doing there. I know she was born in Idaho, but in Boise. She had never mentioned Idaho City before.
I want to ask, but I know I shouldn’t, so I don’t.
But Jay does. He slips his phone into his pocket and looks at me and Shane. “She tracked down her grandparents. She wanted to meet them.”
I’m glad she found them, and I really hope it works out for her with her family. Since they’re gregalis, maybe they’ll accept her in a way her adoptive human family never could.
We keep going with our routine.
The next day, Sergeant Wilsbone finds us. It’s the start of the shift, but we’ve been here for more than two hours already. “I need all three of you in the Captain’s office.”
We follow him without a word.
Spilgen sits behind his desk, arms folded. A Legal Affairs rep is already seated beside him, tablet open.
“You’ve been formally named in a civilian complaint,” Spilgen says. “Luc Knolson filed through his attorney. The DA is pressing assault charges against your pack.”
My chest tightens.
“The department will provide legal support,” he adds. “You’ll need to meet with counsel this week.”
Jay doesn’t flinch, but Shane grips the edge of his chair. “So we’re looking at a trial?” he asks .
Spilgen nods. “Most likely.”
I don’t think any pack in history has faced criminal charges for laying hands on a human and not been condemned.
But even though we’re doomed, gratitude creeps into my chest. I never thought a department would back an aegis unit.
Balls would’ve let us rot, but Fontes backed us from the start.
The sergeant said on record that Jay’s actions were justified.
And now the captain says we’ll get legal support.
I meet his eyes. “Thank you.”
On Thursday, we meet our legal counsel. A clerk leads us down a quiet hallway in the admin wing and pushes open the last door on the left.
A man in a gray suit glances up from a stack of files and stands to greet us. “I’m Joe Kettering,” he says, offering a handshake. “Please sit.”
There are three chairs in front of his desk. We sit.
“The DA has accepted the complaint against you and moved forward with formal charges,” he says. “Because you’re a pack, the review includes all of you: joint responsibility.”
“You’re being processed,” he continues. “This is pre-arraignment. We’ll review the evidence packet, submit a formal defense statement, and decide whether to seek dismissal, deferment, or a plea.”
We nod. We’ve been cops for six years; we know how this works.
He opens a leather folder and slides over a stapled copy. “This is the complainant’s initial report, Luc Knolson. The narrative reads: ‘Struck by an off-duty officer without provocation. Feared for his safety. Lost consciousness. Hospitalized.’ No mention of threats. No mention of intoxication.”
Jay’s hands curl into fists.
“We know you have witnesses,” Kettering says. “Officer Fontes already gave a statement. So did the ER nurse, who documented BAC and the tox screen. That evidence is probably what kept the DA from pushing felony assault; they’re charging you with misdemeanor instead. That works in your favor.”
He pulls out a form. “I need each of you to sign a limited disclosure agreement. It lets me contact union reps, internal counsel, and witnesses on your behalf.”
We sign.
He closes the folder. “Don’t talk to reporters. Don’t talk to friends. Don’t talk to Kacy Silvester or Luc Knolson, no matter how tempting it is. Anything you say can be twisted into obstruction or retaliation. If anyone asks, refer them to me.”
We nod.
Kettering looks at each of us. “I’ll be in touch once I get the DA’s discovery file. Until then, stay clean.”
We stand, shake his hand and walk back into the hall.
I think I should be more scared than I am, but I already saw this coming, so it doesn’t hit as hard as it could’ve. If it weren’t for the cold that settled in my chest since the day Jo shut out, I might even be okay.
We don’t talk about it in the days that follow. There’s not much to say. But we tweak our routine: in addition to showing up early, we start staying late at the unit too.
On Friday, we get home so late after our run that we just collapse into bed.
And then the weekend comes. Once again, we’re stuck in the house.
Right before noon, my phone rings. For one second, I’m sure it’s Jo, finally wanting to talk, but when I check the screen, it’s Fontes.
I answer, surprised.
“Hey,” he says. “Do you guys got plans tonight?”
“No,” I reply.
“We’ve got a rec game at the Y. Indoor court, pickup rules. Pretty solid group. You should come.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. “What?”
“Basketball,” he explains. “I play every Saturday at seven on the YMCA court downtown.”
After everything that happened at the barbecue, I don’t want to be near any human I’m not obligated to. “Thanks for the invite, man. But we’ll pass. We and humans… not a good mix.”
He sighs. “No pressure. But if you want to show up, I already talked to the guys. They’re good people. Nobody expects small talk. Just show up, move your body, clear your head a little. If you change your minds, I’ll be there.”
When I tell my brothers, both Shane and Jay agree it’s better to stay away from humans as much as possible.
That’s how we’ve survived. That’s why we never had any off-duty problems before.
Even with the human women we used to hook up with, we were always careful.
Clear rules. Start, middle, end. No confusion, no overlap.
Barbecues, game nights, casual hangouts — we know now that kind of closeness isn’t something we can have with humans. There are just too many ways for things to go wrong.
But as the day drags on, our reasons start to feel thinner and thinner. I’m desperate for something to do that isn’t thinking about Jo, wondering if she’s safe. If she’ll ever come back after she finds out we’re facing a criminal trial.
Shane is the first to admit he wants to go. “If anyone looks the wrong way at us, we drop it and head home.”
Jay and I agree, so a little past six, we’re heading into downtown Great Sky. The gym’s already loud when we walk in, sneakers squeaking, balls smacking backboards. Fontes waves us over from the bench, pulling his sneakers tight.
“You made it,” he says.
Jay shrugs. “Nothing better to do. Figured we’d check it out.”
“We’ve never played,” I admit .
Fontes lifts an eyebrow. “Ever?”
Shane nods. “Seen a few games on TV. That’s it.”
But Fontes doesn’t look worried. “You’ll catch on.”
He stands, stretches out his arms, rolls his neck. “I’m up next. You three sit this one out and watch how it goes. Pick up the flow.”
We find a spot along the wall and lean back to watch.
It moves fast. Half-court. Five-on-five. No refs. Looks like the players call their own fouls, out-of-bounds, all of it. Kind of like a handshake system: speak up if something’s off, otherwise play on. No timeouts, no whistles, just motion, clean and constant.
Jay watches footwork. Shane tracks spacing. I study how they switch on defense, how they find gaps. There’s a rhythm under all, like a current. By the time the game ends, we’ve seen enough.
Fontes jogs back over, sweat darkening his shirt. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” I say.
He nods and claps Shane on the shoulder.
We get pulled into the next round: me, Jay, Shane, a man named Chris in a faded UConn shirt, and a skinny guy who stares at us and says, “Damn, you guys are tall.”
We take our spots.
First play, Shane snags a bad pass and drives it straight in. Doesn’t dunk, but it’s close. The backboard rattles. Jay strips his guy clean the next time down and drives hard left. I set a screen without thinking; the guy behind me eats it face-first.
After that, it’s just flow. We stop trying to mimic and just move the way we always do, no words, no plan, just timing and reaction.
Jay gets called for a foul once, but even the guy who calls it looks unsure.
We win the first game. Then the second.
Nobody says much while we’re playing, but the energy shifts. Not hostile, just aware.
When we step off, one guy from the losing side grabs his water bottle and breathes out, “Next time, y’all can’t be on the same team.”
Laughter ripples through the court.
We sit out the next round, legs stretched, backs against the wall. The court noise rolls on, ball against hardwood, shouts, more laughter. And for the first time in days, the pressure in my chest eases a little. We’ll be back next week.
Sunday morning, I decide I’m done eating chunks of bread with water and make a real breakfast for us.
Since last night felt good, we decide to get our own hoop, so after breakfast, we drive to the Walmart in Bridgeport. We grab a portable hoop, a couple of sandbags, a wrench, and a socket set.
On the way home, we stop at a restaurant, the first decent lunch we’ve had in weeks.
We build the hoop in the gravel strip beside the house, just to the left of the garage.
Jay holds the frame steady while I fill the base with the sandbags.
When it’s done, it’s not pretty. The backboard leans slightly right.
The bolts don’t sit flush, so Shane has to kick one of the braces into place. But it stands.
We don’t paint lines. The gravel’s uneven, and the ball skips weird if you don’t dribble clean, but we get used to it fast. We play all evening.
When we finally stop, drenched in sweat, I feel tired but steadier. Less broken. When we hit the nest, I sleep well.
On Monday morning, Jay cooks breakfast. I trade the same texts with Jo: I ask if she’s okay, she says she’s still in Idaho City and that she’s fine. I tell her we’re fine too.
Instead of showing up too early at the unit, we shoot around in the yard before heading to work.
At lunch, we hit the break room, but the vending machine is finally out of protein bars.
Beckett’s always eating delivery, so Jay asks where it’s from and orders for us. Chicken, brown rice, roasted veggies in a black plastic tray. It comes with a little fork and everything.
We grab takeout on the way back home, but when we get in, we kill some time at the hoop before dinner.
We’re almost finished eating when Jay says, out of nowhere, “NBA playoffs are on.”
I glance up. “Since when?”
“They started a couple weeks ago. Still first round. Celtics and Heat play tonight.”
“What time?” Shane asks.
Jay checks his phone. “Seven-thirty. TNT.”
That’s in ten minutes. We clear the table, then sprawl out on the couch. Jay finds the channel, and the pre-game show’s already running, with commentators in suits, breaking down matchups, slow-motion replays of dunks and buzzer-beaters.
It’s sharp. Fast. Aggressive. The kind of sport that doesn’t waste time.
I like it.
Shane leans forward. “Did you see that? That dude just teleported.”
We watch the whole game.
The routine builds itself. We take turns making breakfast. We shoot around in the hoop before heading to work. We order real food for lunch, grab takeout for dinner. We watch a game every night.
The week moves a little easier than the last.
On Thursday, we get a call from MAB. We’re expected in D.C. for our monthly evaluation next Monday. Saturday night, we head back to the court to play with Fontes and the other guys again.
This time, we’re split. Fontes throws Shane onto his team, along with a couple regulars. Jay and I end up opposite him.
Shane plays like he’s got something to prove.
Cuts hard. Sets brutal screens. Owns the space under the rim.
He blocks one of my shots, grins as he jogs back, and I know it’s on.
Jay’s in the zone, smooth, fast, always where he needs to be.
He picks off a pass and drives it in like it’s nothing.
We play hard. Against each other. Against everyone. No one backs off. No one holds back.
Fontes gives me a look mid-game, half-smile, half-disbelief.
But we’re not out here to impress anyone. We’re here to move. To sweat. Shane score on Jay. Jay answers the next play. It doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let up. When it’s over, no one remembers the score. Doesn’t matter.
Everyone’s breathing heavy, shirts clinging to skin, grinning like they just walked off a battlefield. I feel good. Better than I’ve felt in weeks.
Then my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Jo. My heart jumps harder than it did during the game. She never texts at night. Never texts first.
I open it.
I’m coming home.