This is Just a Dream

Chapter 15

The fluorescent lights of the Pre-K classroom buzzed with a sound that felt suspiciously like a swarm of angry hornets. Eden sat on a miniature chair—a piece of plastic furniture that felt like it had been designed for a dollhouse—and watched as a four-year-old named Leo carefully, methodically, attempted to insert a purple crayon into his own nostril.

"Leo," she said, her voice retaining a level of calm that she didn't actually possess. "That is not where the crayon goes. The crayon goes on the paper. The paper is the flat, white thing in front of you."

Leo paused, his eyes wide and unblinking, before promptly switching the crayon to his other nostril.

"I am currently in the trenches," Eden typed into her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen. "We have a tactical situation in the craft corner involving a toddler and a Crayola-based sinus infection. The enemy is holding the high ground—specifically, the top of the bookshelf. Send reinforcements. Or snacks."

Her phone buzzed almost instantly.

The enemy sounds resourceful, Garrett replied. Do you have eyes on his extraction point? If he attempts to initiate a breach of the olfactory canal, maintain a tight perimeter. Do not let him establish a foothold in your nasal cavity. That’s a Class C violation.

Eden let out a sharp, genuine laugh that startled a nearby girl, who was currently attempting to reorganize the entire library by color.

"I don't have the training for this, Commander," she typed, a smile touching her lips for the first time in hours. "I signed up for stories and alphabet blocks. Nobody told me about the biological warfare."

That’s the thing about the front lines, Private, came the reply. You think it’s going to be glorious. It’s mostly just keeping the assets from doing something that requires an emergency room visit. Maintain your discipline. I’m monitoring the situation from afar.

It had been three months since the first text. In that time, the silence of her life had been replaced by a constant, rhythmic exchange that served as the heartbeat of her existence. They had established a pattern: she provided the chaotic, vivid, and often absurd updates from her life as a student teacher, and Garrett provided the dry, tactical, and deeply protective commentary that made the world feel navigable.

He was her anchor, and she, in some strange and unspoken way, had become his.

Thousands of miles away, the sun was hitting the training grounds with a relentless, punishing glare. Garrett Hanson stood in the center of a dusty clearing, his hands clasped behind his back, watching a platoon of new recruits navigate an obstacle course that looked more like a glorified playground than a training facility.

He should have been focused on the cadence of their movements, on the way they held their rifles, on the tactical deficiencies of their squad leaders. Instead, he was staring at his phone, his thumb tapping out a response about the structural integrity of a toddler’s finger-painting.

"Sir?"

The voice was tentative, belonging to Captain Miller, a young, ambitious officer who had been on the same team as Adam. Miller was standing just to Garrett's right, his brow furrowed as he followed Garrett’s gaze toward the screen.

"Sir, are we ready to move to the live-fire range?" Miller asked, his tone cautious.

Garrett didn't look up. "Give them another ten minutes on the crawl. Their low-crawls are sloppy. I want them tight."

He chuckled softly at a text from Eden about a child who had insisted on marrying the class hamster.

"Everything alright, sir?" Miller pushed, his gaze lingering on the slight, uncharacteristic twitch of Garrett’s lips.

Garrett finally looked up, his expression instantly snapping back to the neutral, impenetrable mask of a commander. "The recruits are having trouble with the basic hand-and-arm signals, Captain. It’s frustrating."

"Right," Miller said, his eyes still flickering toward the phone. "Of course. It’s just... you’ve been looking at your screen a lot today, sir. Is there a situation with Command?"

Garrett felt a sudden, sharp surge of irritation, followed quickly by a wave of amusement. The idea of anyone, let alone an ambitious young captain, trying to deduce his tactical situation was almost funny.

"There is no situation, Captain," Garrett said, his voice flat and professional. "Carry on with the preparations for the live-fire range."

"Yes, sir," Miller said, snapping a salute and retreating with a look of confused bewilderment.

Garrett watched him go, then turned his gaze back to the phone. He felt a weird, unfamiliar sensation in his chest—a lightness that felt like the easing of a heavy pack after a long march. He was smiling. He was actually, genuinely smiling, and he didn't care who noticed.

He was still a commander but he was also a man who had an important text about a toddler named Leo.

The hamster wedding was successful, Eden wrote. The bride ate the ring, which was a carrot slice. Chaos ensued. I have glue in my hair. I think I’ve lost the battle for the craft corner.

Glue is a tactical disadvantage, Garrett typed, his thumbs moving with a grace that surprised him. It’s designed to bind and confuse. Focus on containment. Get the assets into the circle time area. That’s your command center. You can manage the field from there.

Yes, sir, she replied. Anything else?

Don't let them see you sweat, he wrote. They smell fear. And glue.

He slipped the phone into his pocket just as a cadet approached, his face streaked with dirt, his chest heaving with exertion.

"Cadet?" Garrett asked, his tone crisp.

"Sir, the squad is ready for the move to the range, sir!"

Garrett nodded, his posture straightening. He looked out over the field, his eyes catching the light of the midday sun.

He walked toward the range, his stride long and measured. He felt the weight of his responsibilities—the training, the logistics, the unspoken promise of the mission—but he also felt the weight of the phone in his pocket. It was a small, glowing talisman of a life that insisted on existing, a life that was messy and chaotic and profoundly, stubbornly beautiful.

He thought of the photograph in his room—the one of the girl in the park, the copy of the photo she didnt know he had. He thought of the blood, the dust, and the silence. And then, he thought of the glue in Eden’s hair.

"Sir?" Miller asked, appearing again as they reached the firing line. "You okay? You’ve got a bit of a, uh, look on your face."

Garrett looked at Miller, his expression unreadable, then shifted his gaze to the line of cadets, their rifles raised, their faces focused.

"I’m just enjoying the view, Captain," Garrett said, his voice steady. "It’s a nice day for training."

Miller looked at the dusty, barren range, then back at Garrett, his face a picture of pure confusion. "It’s 95 degrees with 80 percent humidity, sir."

"Exactly," Garrett said, and for the first time in his career, he didn't care about the protocol, the appearance, or the reputation.

He knew that as soon as the range was cleared, there would be a text waiting for him. Something about a spilled juice box, or a toddler’s interpretation of the alphabet, or the simple, grounding fact of her day. And he would reply, and the world would make sense.

He felt the phone buzz in his pocket.

He didn't check it immediately. He gave the order to fire.

As the rifles roared, the sound of the gunshots rhythmically echoing across the range, Garrett felt the familiar, grounding sensation of the task at hand. He was a commander. He was a man who lived by the clock, by the mission, and by the rules.

But he was also a man who had been cracked open by a girl with glue in her hair.

And as the last of the targets fell, the range going quiet once again, he felt a profound sense of satisfaction.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, the screen lighting up to reveal a new message.

Are you still there? she asked.

Always, he typed. How’s the glue situation?

He walked back toward the barracks, the dusty heat of the afternoon settling over him like a warm, comforting blanket. He felt the familiar, steady pulse of his own life, the rhythm of his own heart, and the quiet, persistent awareness of the girl who was learning to walk on ground made of bones.

The barracks were quiet, the day’s work done, the evening settling in with a soft, purple haze. He sat on the edge of his cot after his shower.

He looked at the photograph of himself in his dress uniform he had on his dresser, then at the photo of the girl with the wind swept hair, then at the phone in his hand.

He closed his eyes, the image of the soldier and the toddler and the teacher filling his mind.

One text at a time. One day at a time. One step at a time.

The world was broken, and the war was long, and the loss was absolute. But in the quiet, fragile spaces of the day, there was glue, and hamsters, and juice boxes, and the small, defiant, beautiful truth of a girl who kept sending messages to him.

He tapped the screen.

I'm right here, he wrote. Report.

And as the message went out, the night sky began to fill with stars—vast, cold, and indifferent, just as they had been in the desert.

He noticed his heart beat harder and more intense in his chest, not for just him but for Eden as well, his heart beat was now for her as well and she had no idea.