There's a weird thrumming somewhere in the room. Sounds familiar but I can't place it. Takes me opening my eyes and turning my head to figure it out. I squint in the dark and reach for my phone as it vibrates again on the metal table by my bed.
So weird. Like Jim said. Plugged back in again. Already I know I'm gonna miss the silence of the field when I get back to Washington, and this thing keeps going off with news emails I didn't sign up for and texts from family and friends.
I lift it and squeeze an eye shut as it blinds me, new notification lighting up the screen. Just holding the phone up makes my arm shake, so I roll to my side with a low groan, resting phone and hands against the mattress.
Had two days of PT since I last talked to Jim, and it's kicking me in the ass.
Who knew lifting soda cans would be the death of me. I guess I'm moving faster than they thought, though; surprised everyone when I walked across the room by myself to fix the curtain on my window.
My eyes widen as I wake up more, seeing who sent the email sitting in my near-empty inbox.
To: KM.Kooper@RedRoverUnit.com
April 12th (03:32)
From: Fritz.TobyB@memomail.com
Kevin,
I wrote and deleted this like ten times. I first started it off really angry, and it took me five tries to realize that wasn't fair to you. I'm just so glad you're alive, Kooper.
I'm not big on getting drunk off my ass, never have been. But I'll admit that I downed a bottle of Kraken—it's like six in the evening, by the way, this is almost 'day drinking'—just so I could get enough gumption to send you this email.
I don't know what it is Kev but suddenly having technology to talk to you, knowing I could send this and get a response in less than an hour...that scares the fuck out of me. Suddenly you're right there, so much closer, even if you are a few thousand miles away still.
You're RIGHT THERE. On the other end of a screen. You're not a letter I send, where I forget about it cause I don't hear back from you for a month or so, maybe more. We'll be on the same soil in just a few weeks.
And you nearly died. And God. I've never met you and yet I almost fell to pieces.
I stepped away from my laptop and had to go stand outside in the cold for a minute. Back now. This email is taking too long to write.
I gave your email to your sister and nephew, by the way, I hope that's okay. You may hear from them. I didn't tell her you were coming back yet, or that you got hurt. I figure that's your business, and I honestly didn't want to get stuck in the middle with the little info I have.
Figure there's a reason you emailed and didn't text. But if you happen to be able to text, or call if you want, I'm at 406-650-6445.
Gonna close with this.
I'm so fucking sorry about Elijah. I'm so sorry for your friends, Kev. I never knew them, but what you told me about them, I know they're excellent people.
Do you need a ride from the airport when you get back to Washington? Do you have a place to stay afterward?
Let me know, I can be there. If you want.
Yours, Toby
Something stings down the cut of my nose, and it takes me pulling my hand away from the phone to wipe at my cheek to realize I'm crying.
If I want, when I get better signal, I can hear their voice. If I want, they can pick me up from the airport.
This other being who I'm still not sure even exists.
Right there with you, Toby.
I can click 'send', and I could hear back from you in an instant. No more waiting, no more feel of opening up an envelope with their wonderful handwriting. I miss their handwriting.
Another ping, and there's an email from my sister. Another, and another. The first one makes me laugh until it hurts my ribs, since she hit send too soon middle of a rant of how excited she was that I had an email now. Second is her berating me only to end up going on another rant of how much she misses me. Third is just a block of text full of questions. Why do I have an email, why am I in Germany, am I okay?
I fall asleep before I reply to anyone. And I dream that I'm able to just call Claire up, hear her voice again now, right now, for the first time in years.
YOU ARE READING
Starts with a Match
Horror"Most people in the units, especially here on the front lines where they're sick and bored of all this shit-they call them gluts. Gluttons. Ravenous, insatiable. Zombies. Can't be a zombie if they're still alive. Which they are. They're just starvi...
