I wrote the new assignment in the thin margin.

My phone lit up on the metal folding table beside my left elbow.

The screen showed a new text notification from my fifteen-year-old daughter, Haley.

Oak Ridge, Texas, was eight time zones behind us.

A message at twenty-two hundred hours local time meant it was two in the afternoon back on Elm Street.

Haley usually sent short updates about high school track practice just before her morning classes began.

A message at this hour meant she was texting from a classroom or a packed hallway between periods.

I kept my eyes fixed on the paper roster.

Personal phones were allowed in the admin containers during off-shift evening hours, but Vance kept a hard line between unit operations and stateside distractions.

“Moving Henderson leaves the south perimeter gate one rifle short on the early morning rotation,” I said.

“I’ll have to pull a reservist from shift two to fill the gap.”

I pushed the clipboard across the oak desk to Vance.

He picked it up and tilted the paper toward the fluorescent light overhead.

The phone screen lit up once more.