Wyler leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his belt buckle.

“See that your documentation is complete by Thursday, Master Chief.

Protocol doesn’t bend for administrative convenience.”

Outside it had started to rain, fat drops drumming on the aluminum gutters over the porch.

In the living room, the soft hum of the refrigerator drifted in through the open archway from the kitchen.

Matty sat on the edge of the brown plaid couch with his school binder open across his knees.

He’d kicked off his shoes, his gray socks tucked under him.