At the academy graduation, my father scoffed under his breath, “Useless. She’ll quit like she always does.” I stood perfectly still at attention. Then Drill Sergeant Frey halted the ceremony, turned toward me, and raised his hand in a sharp salute. “Major,” he said, voice carrying across the field. “On extended assignment.” My father’s face drained of color.

A train platform in Prague at 2:16 a.m.
A safe house in Arizona with cracked mirrors.
A basement in Virginia lit by six blue monitors.
A warehouse outside Mosul while sand tapped against sheet metal walls. Seven years became a collection of rooms where I could not use my real name.

My family existed between assignments like ghosts of a different kind. Mom sent occasional messages. Your cousin had the baby. Caleb got engaged. Dad’s knee is bad again. Hope you’re eating.

The worst message came at Christmas. A photo.

Everyone around the fireplace in matching plaid pajamas. Caleb with his fiancée. Dad in the center, broad and proud. Mom tired but smiling. Four stockings on the mantel.

Dad. Mom. Caleb. Kelsey. Mine was gone. I was in a warehouse when the photo arrived, my arm bandaged from a recent operation. I stared at it until the screen dimmed.