My father stepped closer, voice dropping into a mock-serious tone. “Don’t take it personally, son. You were useful.
That counts for something.”
The old version of me—the one who would’ve begged, pleaded, tried to fix it with words—died right there on their porch like a candle pinched between fingers. The Marine Corps taught me a few things. One of them was timing.
Another was that emotion is fuel, but you don’t pour fuel everywhere unless you want the whole place to burn with you inside it. So I did the thing that scared them more than yelling. I smiled.
Not wide, not fake-happy—just enough to give them nothing to grab. “Well,” I said softly, like I was commenting on the weather, “I’m glad she’s feeling better.”
Shell’s laughter burst out. “Oh my God.
He’s taking it like a puppy.”
My father clapped once, slow. “Look at that. He’s trained.”
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