Her father, Gunnery Sergeant Daniel Carter, had died eleven months earlier during what the official report called a “non-combat training incident” at a base in southern California. The phrasing had always bothered her mother, Elaine, who felt it reduced a life to something administrative, something tidy and detached, as if grief could be filed away alongside paperwork and signatures. But Lila never complained about the wording. She didn’t complain much about anything, really. Instead, she held onto small, tangible pieces of him—his old compass, a faded photograph of him in uniform with his arm slung loosely around her shoulders, and most of all, the heavy black watch he used to wear, which now slid awkwardly around her wrist because it had never been meant for someone so small.
That morning, she had adjusted the watch three times before leaving the house, tightening the strap as much as it would go, as if securing it tightly enough might keep something else from slipping away. Elaine had noticed, of course—mothers always do—but she said nothing, only smoothing Lila’s hair back into place and reminding her, in that gentle, careful tone she’d learned to use since her husband’s death, that there were only a few days left until graduation. “Just get through the week,” she had said, as though it were something simple, something manageable, like finishing a chore or wrapping up a project.
But there are things you can’t simply “get through,” and grief, especially the kind that settles into the bones, has a way of surfacing at the most inconvenient times.
The cafeteria was louder than usual that day, a chaotic mix of clattering trays, overlapping conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter that rose above the rest like a flare. Lila moved through it carefully, her tray balanced in both hands, scanning for an empty seat. She had friends, technically, but since her father’s death, the dynamics had shifted in ways she couldn’t quite articulate. People were kinder, in a distant, uncertain sort of way, but also more cautious, as though afraid of saying the wrong thing, which often meant they said nothing at all.
She had just spotted a spot near the end of one of the long tables when she heard it.
“Hey, Carter.”
The voice came from behind her, casual but edged with something sharper underneath. She paused, not turning right away, her fingers tightening slightly around the edges of her tray.
“Yeah, I’m talking to you.”
