Page 2 of Interpreter

But no one is coming. Just likeher, I’m trapped inside my head with nothing to distract me but a life imprisoned in silence.

Anniston: Don’t make me use her.

I swipe away my commander’s text notification and turn on the shower. Maybe they’ll let me have this peace. At least until I turn off the water.

Anniston: Fine. We’re leaving. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I groan, knowing good and damn well what that text means. Anniston, the owner of the veterans foundation where I live, is pulling out the big guns. The only thing in the world she knows I won’t ignore. Turning off the shower, I walk back into my bedroom and toss my destroyed belongings in the closet where they won’t be a hazard to little toes. When I’m confident I’ve picked up everything, I hop in the shower and attempt to wash off this asshole mood.

Thirty minutes later, the lock to my bedroom door turns—guess Theo caved—and is pushed open slowly, revealing tiny feet in footie pajamas.

I smile, waiting for the rest of her to shuffle in, spilling the fish shaped crackers with each step she takes. Without looking back at her mama, she closes the door softly all the while looking at the mess of crackers she spilled on the floor.

“Oops,” I tell her quietly, hiding a smile behind my finger.

The girl, who melts my heart with a single coo, grins, flashing those pearly white baby teeth. I kneel, needing her hug, and open my arms. “Come here, munchkin.”

Blue eyes, the same as her father’s, go wide right before she takes off in the cutest run-waddle ever—slipping a few times on the hardwood floors—until she plows right into me, just like her mother does.

“Mmm…” I coo, swinging her side to side in my arms and rising. “What did you bring Uncle Tim for dinner?”

She looks confused for a moment, eyeing her half-full container of crackers and then my face before she puts her thumb against her forefinger, like a crocodile hand, signing,“Eat.”

I shake my head. “I’m teasing. You eat it. Uncle Tim isn’t hungry right now.”

I walk us over to the bed and place her tiny body in the middle before I lay out next to her. I grab the remote control and turn the TV on to the show we like—well, she likes it. I could do with something a little more gripping than Peppa Pig, but I watch it because I love—used to love—hearing her sweet little giggle.

While the bright colors flash along the screen, entertaining Aspen, the closed captioning mocks me as it scrolls along the bottom, taunting me with emotion inserts such as . Just reading the text and having it tell me how these characters are sounding brings back my earlier fury. Glaring, I tense up, clenching my jaw.

You don’t want to break the TV, Tim. You can still enjoy it without the sound. It’s not like you heard much of it the last few years anyway.

But I heard some. Not everything, but certain pitches I could still pick up.

Now though, I get nothing.

So fuck the closed captioning.

Fuck positivity.

It isn’t the same.

I can’t enjoy it.

I won’t.

I hate everything it reminds me of.

Her.

My past.

My doomed present.

I don’t even realize I’ve started breathing out of my mouth in short pants until something is shoved in between my lips, startling me upright. Spitting out the offending object, I pluck it off the comforter, examining the small cracker and the culprit behind its launch.

My eyes narrow playfully at the blonde-haired beauty. Her soft smile douses my anger at something I should be thankful for. Without closed captioning, I would solely rely on lipreading.

“Was this one of the ones you dropped?” Holding up the cracker, I lean in closer. Aspen’s eyes widen in anticipation of a tickle.

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