Oakridge Military Reserve Depot, 8:00 in the morning.

Captain Samuel Holt stamped the third copy of my emergency leave authorization and slapped the manila folder down on the wooden bench between our duffel bags.

“Thirty days, Lieutenant Commander,” Holt said, tapping a finger on his clipboard.

“Your unit mobilizes for tactical transport in six weeks, so don’t let civilian family business knock your service record off course.”

“Understood, sir,” I said.

My phone buzzed on the slat of the wooden bench, rattling against the brass buckle of my web belt.

The screen lit up with a text from my fourteen-year-old brother, Ethan.

“Grandfather’s desk drawer is standing open.

Dad took the blue legal file and two bank folders this morning.”

I picked up the phone and adjusted my watch strap, pulling the nylon band one notch tighter around my wrist.

“Is there a problem with the leave timeline, Carter?” Holt asked, glancing up from his roster.

“No, sir,” I said.

“The timeline is exactly right.”

“Your father called the base command office twice yesterday,” Holt said.

“He wanted to know whether active duty officers could be summoned for depositions in local civil court.”

“And what did you tell him?” I asked.

“I told him military regulations don’t bend to small-town lawyer tactics,” Holt said.

“What’s going on at the Pine Street house, Madison?”