Chapter 3
Drying his hands on a dish towel, Preston leaned over the phone where it rested on the counter and tapped the screen. Sure enough, the display read, 1 new message from SPC Teresa Williamson. What time was it over in Afghanistan right now? He tried to do the math in his head, but couldn’t. Mid-afternoon, most likely, though with her, there was no telling. She sent messages when she could grab computer time, when she wasn’t on patrol or sleeping or eating. At least she hadn’t sent a Skype request.
Preston pulled up the email and scanned it quickly, which was easy to do—Tess’s messages were always super short. They all began the same way: How are you two doing? I’m still alive.