Page 3 of Beyond Protection
"Let him eat first," Claire said quietly.
The table settled. Forks scraped plates. Ma hummed something tuneless while returning from the kitchen. The conversation drifted sideways into safer territory—Michael's security contract, Matthew's EMT renewal, and whether Rowan's podcast was getting too dark.
I ate. It gave my hands something to do.
My hands. Callused thick at the base of each finger where the glove sat for nine innings. Taped joints. The left index finger sat slightly crooked from two breaks that hadn't healed properly. These were the hands of a third baseman—ten years of diving for grounders and catching line drives barehanded before I learned better.
One hundred sixty-two games. Plus playoffs. Plus media obligations. Plus the weight of being part of history, like I'd asked for it.
The season had worn me down to exposed nerves.
My phone buzzed against my thigh.
No one else heard it. Or they were polite enough to pretend they hadn't.
I set down my fork. Reached under the table.
Unknown number. Again.
You're maintaining social obligations despite visible fatigue. This accelerates deterioration. Isolation is necessary for proper restoration.
My hand tightened around the phone. How did they know about my social obligations? I deliberately didn't tell anyone about the trip to Seattle, avoiding fodder for the sports press.
"Mac?" Claire was watching me. "You all right?"
"Yeah. Just—" I put the phone away. Forced a smile. "Agent stuff. Nothing important."
Her eyes held mine across the table. She didn't believe me. She never did, but she let it go.
Michael didn't.
His attention had shifted from his beer to me, that tactical assessment sharpening. He didn't say anything. He watched.
I picked up my fork again.
Ma appeared beside me. "You're not eating."
"I'm eating."
"You're pushing food around like Claire does. Eat."
I took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. It tasted like dust.
The third text came while Marcus was explaining fire safety code changes.
847 documented images across 18 months. Current condition: critical. Intervention timeline: 3 weeks.
The phone slipped from my hand and clattered against my plate.
Everyone looked.
"Sorry." I grabbed it. Stood. "I need—bathroom. Excuse me."
I made it to the hallway before my hands started shaking.
The bathroom door locked. Click of the button.
I braced against the sink. The faucet dripped once, sharp and deliberate, as if the house itself was listening.
