With them, I had been careless in exactly the way I knew better than to be.
My phone buzzed again in my hand. Dad calling. Again. His name filled the screen like a command. Arthur Mitchell had always believed urgency was something he could manufacture through repetition. If he called enough, raised his voice enough, paced enough, slammed enough drawers, the world eventually shaped itself around his need. In our house, people answered when my father called. My mother, Evelyn, answered. My brother, Preston, answered. I answered, even from war zones and briefing rooms and supply depots where reception came and went like a bad mood.
