Hard Beat

As the rocky terrain jostled us around, our combat helmets hit the metal of the transport behind us more times than we cared to count, but that only amplified the anticipation of what was going to greet us when we got our boots on the ground. Being packed like sardines in the Stryker, shoulder to shoulder, made it impossible to turn and meet Beaux’s eyes, to make sure she was okay without speaking aloud and giving away that I might care a little more than I should about my colleague. But I tried to ascertain her comfort level in other ways. With my hands flat on my thighs, I ever so subtly moved my pinkie finger to brush over the edge of where our thighs met. Just enough to let her know I was there, next to her, looking out for her.