Hunter lay back down, sliding under the landing gear. His heart was pounding against his ribs like a rotor out of balance. He pressed his thumb to the fresh checkmark, smearing the ink just a little.
Landing gear hydraulic pressure – CHECKED. Tire tread depth – CHECKED. Emergency flare inventory – CHECKED. Secondary comms test – CHECKED. Active Duty - Hunter And Bailey -Gay- - Checked
Are we still doing this? – UNCHECKED.
Hunter slid out from under the gear. He lay on the concrete, looking up. Bailey was still crouched, and now they were eye-level. The hangar’s emergency lights cast half of Bailey’s face in hard shadow. His jaw was set. His name tape read BAILEY . Hunter’s read HUNTER . No ranks out here. Just bodies and duties. Hunter lay back down, sliding under the landing gear
Bailey stood. A ghost of a smile—the one Hunter had only seen twice before, once in a supply closet during a tornado warning, once in a hotel room on a three-day pass—flickered across his face. Landing gear hydraulic pressure – CHECKED
“Talk to me, Bailey,” Hunter called out, his voice muffled by the landing strut.
Hunter sat up slowly. He took the pen from his chest pocket—the one with the chewed cap—and very deliberately, with Bailey watching his every move, he drew a single, firm checkmark through the last line.