Chapter 2
The baby next door has been crying for four straight hours.
At this point, I'm considering throwing myself off the balcony.
I stare at the ceiling of my apartment with one arm thrown over my eyes, listening to the muffled sound through the paper-thin walls.
Crying.
Pacing footsteps.
A woman's soft voice is trying desperately to soothe the kid.
Then more crying.
Jesus Christ.
I drag a hand down my face and check the clock on my bedside table.
1:07 am.
Perfect.
Exactly what someone with chronic insomnia needs.
Another sharp cry cuts through the wall.
I exhale slowly through my nose, already feeling the headache forming behind my eyes.
Normally, the building's quiet. Half the tenants are old or never home. The apartment next door's been empty for weeks.
Until tonight.
Now, apparently, I live beside a screaming infant.
The crying pitches higher.
The woman says something too muffled to understand, but there's panic in her voice now. Exhaustion too.
I sit up with a groan, rubbing at the back of my neck.
This is ridiculous.
I've been awake for almost thirty hours already after back-to-back training exercises, and every time I start drifting off, the kid screams again.
Another cry pierces through the wall.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter.
Before I can stop myself, I knock once against the wall beside my bed.
Not hard enough to be aggressive.
Just enough to say I can hear you.
The crying stops instantly.
So do the footsteps.
Silence settles so suddenly it feels wrong.
My irritation fades almost immediately.
Because I know that kind of silence.
Fear silence.
The kind where someone stops moving altogether.
I stare at the wall for a second longer.
Then curse under my breath.
Great.
Now I feel like an asshole.
I stand and head for the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.
The apartment is dark except for the stove light over the counter. My duffel bag from base still sits half unpacked near the couch.
I'm supposed to be sleeping.
Instead, I'm thinking about the woman next door.
I only caught a glimpse of her earlier through the stairwell window, as she struggled upstairs, carrying a baby and half her life in garbage bags.
She looked exhausted.
Young.
Too thin.
And nervous enough that she kept glancing over her shoulder like someone was following her.
I noticed that because I was trained to notice things.
Military habit.
But there was something else too.
When she shifted the baby higher against her chest, her sleeve pulled back slightly.
Bruises.
Not old enough to fade yet.
My jaw tightens automatically at the memory.
I lean against the kitchen counter, staring toward the shared wall.
No crying now.
No movement.
Nothing.
For some reason, that bothers me more.
I know what fear looks like.
I've seen it in civilians during deployment.
Seen it in soldiers, too.
And the woman next door looked terrified before I even opened my damn mouth.
I scrub a hand over my face again.
Not my business.
That should be the end of it.
But twenty minutes later, I'm standing in the twenty-four-hour servo buying baby formula and microwave meals anyway.
The teenage cashier gives me an odd look when I place everything on the counter.
"You got a baby?" he asks.
"No."
He blinks. "Oh."
I don't elaborate.
Back at the apartment complex, the hallway's quiet.
Completely quiet.
I stare at apartment 4C for a second before knocking softly.
No answer.
I shift the grocery bag awkwardly in one hand.
"Hey," I say through the door. "I'm not pissed off, alright?"
Still nothing.
I glance down briefly, noticing the slight shadow under the door move slightly.
She's standing there.
Listening.
"I just figured you might need this," I add.
God, I sound terrible at that.
I set the bag down carefully.
Then, I hesitate before pulling a pen from my pocket and grabbing an old receipt from my wallet.
Thin walls.
Figured you probably forgot to eat.
- Mason, 4B
I leave the note on top of the bag and step back.
For a second, I consider saying something else.
Something reassuring, maybe.
But I don't know her.
And judging by the silence behind the door, she's scared enough already.
So instead, I walk back toward my apartment.
The door behind me doesn't open until I am halfway down the hallway.
I don't turn around.
But I hear the small swish of the bag being lifted inside.
Then the soft sound of someone quietly crying.
My chest constricts unexpectedly.
I stare at my apartment door for a long second before unlocking it.
Not my business, I remind myself again.
But later, lying awake in bed while the building finally settles into silence, I realise I'm listening carefully for the sound of the baby next door anyway.