Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Reid
Day sixteen has been a long day. The bunker challenge is behind us. We’re walking back from the evening briefing—tomorrow’s challenge is a long navigation exercise through rough terrain. Sulla’s gait is off. Subtle. Most people wouldn’t catch it. But I’m trained to read bodies under stress.
He’s limping. Barely. Favoring his left foot. Trying to hide it.
“Your foot bothering you?” I ask.
“It’s fine.”
“You’re limping.”
“Just blisters. Nothing serious.”
We reach our tent. He sits on his cot, starts unlacing his boots slowly. Too slowly. Like it hurts.
I pull out the first aid kit we share. “Let me look at it.”
“It’s fine. I’ll deal with it.”
“Sulla. Let me look at it.”
“Reid—”
“Sit down and let me look at your feet or I’ll make you.”
He looks up at me. Something flickers in his expression—surprise, maybe, or amusement. “You’ll make me?”
“Yes.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment. Then, “Fine.”
I kneel in front of his cot. He’s already removed one boot. I reach for the other, unlace it carefully, ease it off.
He doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch. But I can see the tension in his jaw.
The sock is stuck to his foot. Dried blood acting like adhesive.
“Jesus, Sulla. How long have you been walking on this?”
“Two days. Maybe three.”
“And you didn’t say anything?”
“It’s manageable.”
I wet a cloth with water from our canteen, carefully soak the sock until it releases. Peel it away gently.
His foot is a mess. Blisters on the heel and ball of the foot. Several have burst and bled. The skin is raw, angry red, clearly infected in a few spots.
“This is not manageable. This is going to get worse if you don’t treat it.”
“I’ve had worse.”
His tone makes me look up. He’s staring at his own foot with an expression I can’t quite read. Distant. Like he’s somewhere else.
“Sulla?”
He blinks. Focuses on my face. “Sorry. What?”
“I said this needs treatment. Where’d you go just then?”
“Nowhere. Old injury. Reminded me of something.”
He’s lying. Or not lying…deflecting. But I don’t push.
I turn my attention back to his foot. Clean the wounds carefully with antiseptic. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react at all, actually, which is strange. This should hurt.
“You have an impressive pain tolerance,” I say, dabbing antiseptic on a particularly bad blister.
“Practice.”
“What kind of practice gives you this level of pain tolerance?”
He’s quiet, then, “The kind you don’t want. The kind that teaches you pain is temporary but showing weakness lasts forever.”
I stop cleaning. Look up at him. “That’s a dark lesson.”
“Yes.”
“Who taught you that?”
“People who aren’t in my life anymore.”
Fair enough. We all have people like that. People who hurt us and taught us things we wish we’d never learned.
I go back to cleaning his feet. Both of them now—the second one is almost as bad as the first. He must have been in agony for days but walking on them anyway.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask quietly. “We’re partners. I could have helped.”
“You have your own feet to worry about.”
“My feet are fine. And even if they weren’t, we’re supposed to help each other. That’s the whole point of partnering.”
“I’m not used to asking for help.”
“I’ve noticed.”
I finish cleaning and start applying antibiotic ointment. My hands are gentle. Careful. I’m hyperaware of touching him. Of kneeling between his legs like this. Of the intimacy of caring for someone’s wounds.
This is medical. Professional. Partner maintenance.
So why does it feel like more?
His eyes are on my face. I can feel his gaze even though I’m not looking up. Feel the weight of his attention.
“Why are you doing this?” he asks quietly.
“Because we’re partners. You can’t perform tomorrow if your feet are destroyed.”
“That’s the only reason?” His voice is quiet. Careful.
I should say yes. Should keep this simple and tactical. Instead, I look up and meet his eyes.
“Yes,” I lie.
He knows I’m lying. I can see it in his expression. The slight tilt of his head. The way his eyes search my face.
But he doesn’t call me on it. Just nods slowly.
I finish bandaging his feet. Careful wrapping. Secure but not too tight. My hands linger longer than necessary.
My thumb traces the arch of his foot gently. Just once. So briefly it could be accidental.
Except it’s not accidental and we both know it.
Sulla inhales slightly. Barely audible. But I hear it.
I pull my hands back and stand, then start putting the kit away to give myself something to do.
“Thank you.”
I change into sleep clothes with my back turned. Settle into my cot. Four feet of space between us.
“Reid?” His voice in the darkness.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For taking care of my feet. For not making it a bigger thing than it was.”
“You’re welcome.”
Silence. Then, “Today. With Trevor. Did I… did that change how you see me?”
“Yes,” I say. “It changed how I see you.”
“Better or worse?”
“Better.” I debate whether to add, “Much better,” but it blurts out of my mouth before I can stop it.
“I didn’t know I could do that. Be patient like that. Kind. It’s not… it’s not who I’ve been.”
“Who have you been?”
“Someone hard. Someone who didn’t help. Someone who broke things instead of fixing them.”
The admission hangs in the darkness between us.
“And now?” I ask.
“Now I’m trying to be different. I don’t know if I’m succeeding. But I’m trying.”
“You succeeded today. With Trevor. You helped him.”
He doesn’t respond.
I don’t push.
The silence stretches. Comfortable now in a way it wasn’t several weeks ago.
“Can I tell you something?” I ask. “Why I’m actually here.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” I stare at the tent ceiling. “My father has dementia. Memory care facility. Sixty thousand a year. We’re running out of money.” Flat. Factual. The way I say everything that costs me something. “The prize money buys him five years. Maybe more.”
Silence.
“That’s what you’re protecting,” he says quietly.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t offer comfort. Doesn’t tell me it’ll be okay. He just says, “Then we win.”
Certain. Simple. Like it’s already decided.
Something in my chest does something I don’t have a name for.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “We do.”
“Goodnight, Sulla,” I say quietly.
“Goodnight, Reid.”
I lie here in the darkness and think about the warmth of his skin under my hands.
That’s enough to keep me awake for a long time.