61. Ryan
Ryan
The session was short, sterile, and cold.
I sat opposite the Major, a clinical psychiatrist who had seen too much to flinch.
I hadn’t slept in five days this time, and my eyes were burning.
I gave her the same blank stare I’d given the rest of them, expecting the usual useless pep talk.
She slid a packet of temporary separation orders across the desk.
“You’re not fit for duty, Sergeant Carter,” she stated, her voice flat, clinical.
“The pattern of flashbacks, the hyper-vigilance, the escalating episodes of rage, it’s unmanaged.
The risk to the unit is now greater than you.
” I didn’t argue. “You’re sending me home?
” “Emergency leave. Unspecified duration, temporary status. Your kit is packed. You fly out in six hours. This is not a disciplinary; this is a medical containment decision. You need a period of decompression in a clean, quiet environment.” She paused, her expression finally softening.
“You’re chasing a ghost, Sergeant. You’re going to get yourself killed, and we are not sending another box home.
Go.” I took the orders, the paper surprisingly heavy in my hand.
I wasn’t being dismissed; I was being released by a system that couldn’t contain the damage.
I walked out of the office feeling nothing but cold relief.
No vengeance, no mission, just a ticket out.
Jackson’s letters were the only thing that felt real.
I had six hours, and I needed to get to Seattle and find the quiet pond before the desert broke me completely.