Chapter Text
JUL.17, 2017 10:28 PM GMT-5
Leon S. Kennedy
B.S.A.A. Dulvey Parish, Louisiana, Base Camp
The navigation lights flickering through Leon's window had become a point of hypnotic fascination at some point in the past few hours. The sun had just fallen past the horizon, though darkness had already cast for the southern states. By twenty-twenty-eight hours, if he correctly discerned the reflection of his watch in the window, night had been set for about half an hour. It was about then that the overhead lights within the jet's cabin had flicked to life, but Leon was quick to turn his off; a sudden, sharp starburst behind his eyes at the surprise flashbang.
He figured that if his drunken slumber on the nice, cool bathroom floor that morning hadn’t been interrupted, it would’ve been less “flashbang” and more “opening your phone with the brightness turned all the way up at three a.m.” Which, ironically, was exactly how he had been awoken, on said nice, cool bathroom floor. It was his fault for having a hangover, sure, but it wasn't as if he'd been given a heads-up that, 'Hey, Mr. Kennedy, we need you to cancel your day off and assist Redfield and the Special Cases and Disposal Team in infiltrating another B.O.W. appearance.'
Just another day in the office, of course.
Leon listened to the cabin’s comm crackle and announced delays in their arrival due to the weather.
He opened his eyes at some nondescript point (he wasn't sure when he closed them, but the scenery below had changed; dark clouds spread apart just enough to see past).
City lights were passing beneath them, a smattering of bright hues too far and dull to make the throbbing at his temples return but just close enough to let him awe at it for a while. He almost laughed aloud–inappropriately, probably–at a memory that shot to the forefront of his mind. ‘You ever think–how come the world can just go on? How come everybody just keeps moving on?’
Well, ‘Yeah,’ he responded to his memory with the most incredulous inner-monologue laugh he could muster. ‘Like how someone down there is staying up past their bedtime on a school night to play ‘just one more round’ of CoD, or how someone’s on their first date right now and their only worry is how they look and what they say, or how someone’s at home with just their dog and a good movie on, but I’m on my way to discuss fighting world-ending terrors that a majority of the population doesn’t even know about?’
The memory didn’t respond. He was glad it didn’t because that’d be kinda fucked up.
The comm again sounded overhead: "Passing over Baton Rouge. Touching down in five."
Time passed loosely, somewhere between flying past in the blink of an eye and droning on at the pace of dripping molasses. Whatever it was before, it had come to a descent now, much like the jet was descending past the velvety black thicket of sycamores and cypresses into a clearing amidst the bank of a bayou.
Work lights brought a mock of daylight to the terrain of tents, lined as if the constructs themselves were marching off to battle. A Gambit passed between one of the rows, and other B.S.A.A. agents made their way to and fro as if it weren't nearing midnight. A Black Hawk, much further down the landing pad, had armored agents disembarking.
So much for some full-scale commissioned operation only to send an unaffiliated D.S.O. agent in. It felt like throwing a pretty, lacey doily over a ragtag table that was half-fit to fall apart. Of course, if one were to ask Leon, they wouldn’t. If they hypothetically did, he may not add that he didn’t mind it; it was like taking a red ink pen to someone’s assignment after being suspected of cheating. It was satisfying, in a way, but more so reassuring. Besides, who wouldn't like to see another tag-team duo between the golden boy of the B.S.A.A. and the golden boy of the D.S.O.?
The landing was slightly jarring but far from the worst. ‘Beats crash-landing in Lanshiang, am I right or am I right?’ Someone in the back row of Leon’s mental auditorium booed. ‘Tough crowd.’
Disembarking was simple: Leon didn't bring much, a deployment bag for the joint base, and a loadout bag for the mission. Both small (all things considered) and manageable (all things still being considered). He wasn't exactly planning on staying here long. Or, rather, he was told he wouldn’t. So he did–as was habit now after nineteen years in this career–still pack more than they said.
He'd passed some clinical albeit polite words with the pilots before stepping onto the landing pad. It was spongy and wet as soon as he walked off and onto land. A quick scan and it seemed the entire space was like that, though it appeared a tad more stable the closer he got to the outpost.
The air was heavy-laden with a humidity that Leon hadn't experienced in some time. Petrichor was an aftertaste with a promise for more rainfall soon, Spanish moss and spider lilies just beneath it. It all got washed away by the scent of diesel and metal, potent and overwhelming, but something Leon was beyond used to by now and found some odd source of solace in.
Approaching–what seemed to be–the entrance of the outpost, a man with dark skin and darker hair startled at Leon's presence; rookie, no older than twenty-one probably. That thought gave way to an inkling of dread-turned-disdain as the kid rushed up to meet him, but he decided to zip up that feeling to unpack later.
"This way, Mr. Kennedy," Leon had stopped voicing his preference for his given name about a decade ago, so he simply nodded. "We've set up private quarters for you; Redfield's waiting for your debrief."
Beneath the surface, behind how he tried to smooth a knitted brow or straighten his pursed lips, the kid looked nearly hysterical with concern. Leon nodded for him to lead the way without mentioning it, keeping a neutral expression. Chris Redfield wasn't happy, but Leon simply couldn’t help but start rehearsing what comment he’d drop in with. An apology? Of course not. Some classic Leon S. Kennedy dumbass-ery to incite ire in an already low-patience soldier? Duh.
Leon followed the operative through the maze of tents, passing those on patrol, toting bags and crates or running to do errands on time. A few had called to him, and he'd greeted those he couldn't avoid. Others, he pretended he didn't hear (tinnitus is one hell of a thing, you know). But most just stared like a deer in headlights as he passed. Luckily, the kid's panic was to some benefit; they traversed the JB fast and dodged unwanted conversation.
They stopped suddenly in front of one of the larger tents toward the back of the camp. "Right through here," the kid pulled back the command tent's flap for Leon, and a sudden yarn ball of feelings not present before dropped into his lap. He wasn't sure how to explain it, but it was everything between warm and dreadful, wonderful and terrifying, and anything and everything beyond that. Before he could allow himself to stand there, still, for an awkwardly long amount of time, Leon nodded to himself, then to the kid. He dropped a hand to his shoulder, an unspoken ‘You’re fine, Kid,’ before ducking inside.
The smell was arguably more familiar within the tent than the diesel permeating the outside. However, Leon supposed the strange combination of coffee and gunpowder was only a command tent’s basic necessities.
The space was ample and cozy. Black interlocking mats made up a mock flooring for some semblance of comfort with all the traffic passing through, and two unit fans sat catty-corner on opposite sides of the room, freezing the layer of sweat and damp heat that'd built on Leon like a second skin. It sent a shiver over him, jarring.
At the same time, there was a sudden reminder of Amparo: the climate and the military setup.
Leon let his attention drift past the rows of conference tables with laptops and whatever-the-hell technology to the larger one toward the back. Most of the B.S.A.A. operatives in the room (which wasn't many, he noticed, maybe only five or six) were huddled around three monitors the size of flatscreen TVs, a map of Dulvey spanning them seamlessly.
But in front of them, his back to Leon and arms folded over his chest was one he did recognize.
He let out a silent sigh, some tension slipping from his shoulders, and came up beside Chris. "Well, the party can finally start."
A sudden, brief silence dropped over the group, but Leon found himself stifling laughter rather than growing uncomfortable. Two of them–a middle-aged man with sunglasses and one hell of an impressive beard, and a woman with piercing blue eyes that gave Leon a run for his money–exchanged confused looks, a stark contrast to the other three–a dark-skinned man a little older than Beard Guy, a pale brunet with scraggly, slicked-back hair, and a tanned man with black glasses–who all stared at Leon as if they were seeing a ghost.
Despite the interesting cast before him, Leon finally met eyes with his right-hand man (literally, at that moment). "Chris," he held out a hand to him, which, contrastingly to the hard and lightly agitated expression Redfield wore, not a beat was missed when he turned to him and accepted the handshake.
There was something unspoken in it, in the way some of the tension vanished from Chris' shoulders, yet the grip on Leon's hand was almost painfully tight. Not that that was particularly hard to do for him.
"You're late," Chris narrowed his gaze again in contrast. Somewhat. His tone was curt, but Leon saw the wariness pinched in his expression, trying to hide from prying eyes. Too bad he was nosey.
Leon released Chris and lifted his other hand to make a show of checking the double-oh seventeen hours on his watch. He clicked his tongue, cocked his head to the side, but his expression remained unimpressed. "Storms don't care about schedules."
The crease ever-present between Chris' brow deepened its shadow, then retreated again. He sighed through his nose and shook his head, sparing a glance toward the rest of his crew (who immediately turned away and busied themselves) and then back to Leon. "I'm pretty sure that was your excuse last time."
Leon shrugged, dropping his hands to his pockets and turning his head about the tent. "Last time I asked the weather, it didn't care about being original," he said, suppressing a smug look at Chris' frown. "But I'm here now. This place looks like it's preparing for a warzone; how bad is it?"
Frown lines were carved beneath his stubble, and Chris made a half-hearted motion toward the table. He leaned against it, Leon following to do the exact opposite of him, then crossed his arms and straightened his posture. "Blue Umbrella caught wind of bioweapon activity at the Baker Ranch, the same as spotted in Munich in 2014. B.S.A.A. attempted to stop the transfer of 'Eveline' to Central America but failed, and they boarded an LNG carrier. However, it ran aground during a hurricane. Over the past three years, local law has linked twenty disappearances to the ranch, but evidence suggests well over a hundred. Lucas Baker, the son, is thought to have ties to The Connections."
Leon nodded slowly, a beat passing as he let that sink into his memory before he responded. "Eveline: that's the bioweapon?" he asked, squinting at Chris.
Chris cocked his head, a distasteful expression of his own. "E-001," he responded, only making Leon furrow his brow. "It's the first E-Type bioweapon. From the documentation we've gathered, it's referred to as 'Eveline' by The Connections."
"How charming," Leon frowned. "So, this group–The Connections–they hitched a ride with a bioweapon onto, what, just some random ship?"
"As far as Umbrella's told us, the crew was unaware of what was going on," Chris nodded, just as appalled as he was. "Some transmissions were recovered reporting a family being taken onboard."
"A family."
"A family. E-001 reportedly looks like a young girl. Probably had a 'mother' and 'father' with her, if I had to guess," Chris elaborated.
"Then, The Connections, are they just some middleman?"
"Depends," Chris readjusted the arms folded over his chest. "They're a crime syndicate, but they do some of everything. There's evidence of biochemical research and development connected to them. But there's even more evidence of the organization's laundering, murder, and trafficking."
Leon whistled low. "Can't stick to one thing?"
"Guess not."
"But did they create Eveline?"
"It's an ongoing theory. More evidence supporting it than not."
"So, what've you found, then?"
Chris pushed off the table and turned to the dark-skinned operative; he seemed the oldest, a tad older than Beard Guy. "Rolando, do you have those photos?"
Rolando looked up from writing (some report, from what Leon could guess) when he noticed Chris turn to him. He nodded, put his pen down, and stood. "Got some of 'em," he said, moving to a nearby table where a bag was sitting and rifling through it. "Pretty sure Emily's got the rest." He glanced over his shoulder to the blonde woman for confirmation.
Emily shook her head, looking first at Rolando and then at Chris. "I already turned them over. Sorry, sir."
Chris just waved it off.
Rolando returned, this time standing with Chris and Leon, and passed the polaroids to the former. Chris carded through them before giving them to Leon.
He took them, albeit a bit put off that no preface was given to what he was about to look at. The first handful of photos were strange, though not for typical reasons; more so, because he wasn't sure what he was looking at: rooms and spaces and puddles of something muddy and black, inky like the night view of Baton Rouge. This, on the other hand, unsettled him, leaving an odd weight in his stomach.
"If you've already been inside, then why-"
"We haven't," Chris cut him off. Before Leon could ask, he continued. "We've routinely scouted the premises, but only from a distance. That-" he tapped an index to one of the photos of inky darkness. "-is part of what was keeping us out. It's spreading. Fast."
"You said ‘was,’ " Leon lowered the stack in his hands.
Chris' expression soured for the umpteenth time that evening. But Leon recognized it from a mile away: the suppressed grimace and the tightened wrinkles in his eyes. He shifted his attention to Rolando, who put his hands on his hips and sighed.
"We set up camp three weeks ago and already have half our squad down," Rolando continued. "We tried our SOAs first, that didn’t work. Tried us SOUs next, that ain’t workin’. Some o' them, we don't even know if they're gonna make it yet. The attacks weren't expected, and they're getting worse by the day."
"From Eveline?" Leon squinted.
Rolando shook his head. "No, sir," he glanced briefly at the photos and nodded toward them. "Not directly, at least. Might be somethin' from her, might be somethin' else; we've got someone on-site running tests from a sample, but we don't have all the proper equipment. We’ve got some of that sample on its way to Dr. Chambers, but we don’t know how long that’ll take."
"That's part of why you were called," Chris stepped back in. "We weren't–aren't–prepared yet, and now we've got setbacks. It's gonna be a few days."
"So, I was sent to save your asses. What's new?" Leon offered a half-smile, but it went unappreciated if Chris' glare was anything to go by. Rolando did chuff, though, which didn't save his ass, but it did save his pride.
"Wouldn't speak too soon, Mr. Kennedy," Rolando matched his smile. "Now, look at the rest o' those; you'll see what's been attacking us and what you'll be facing."
"Joy, joy," Leon muttered blandly but did as told nonetheless. Then, his hand paused.
The next photo he came to was of . . . well, it was hard to tell at first. Initially, it seemed like another angle of that inky mass, which he wasn't wrong about, but that wasn't all.
This had shape and form. It was as if it revealed itself piece by piece: an elongated arm, another arm, a crooked torso, a misshapen head. Teeth. Rows of gnarly, uneven teeth. Like jetties on a tar ocean that was . . . whatever this was.
"Eugh. What a beaut," Leon said finally, scrunching his nose.
"Uh-huh. Real pretty, ain't it?" Rolando scoffed, offering a hand. Leon put the stack of photos in it and turned away to return them to the bag.
Meanwhile, Leon faced Chris. "So, Umbrella's already got a lot of information; what's our job?"
"Quarantine and detain," Chris responded. "Sanitizing the Baker Ranch and the surrounding area, then detaining or killing E-001 and Lucas Baker. Whatever's necessary."
"Business as usual."
"Business as usual," he confirmed. "But you: you're here because we need intel. Lucas is ours to handle. Blue Umbrella's providing the tech, B.S.A.A.'s got boots on the ground. You stick to gathering data; don't deviate."
Leon's expression hardened. His hands moved from the table behind him to instead cross over his chest. "I'm not here to follow a playbook, Chris. Much less meet some quota for Umbrella executives," he stated, voice lowering but not to a whisper. "This isn't just about Lucas for me."
Chris spared a glance back to the operatives sitting around them. Despite them seeming busy, he put a hand on Leon's shoulder and pulled him over to a distant table. He let go of him and leaned on the table to catch Leon's line of sight.
"Leon, I get it. You've got your own agenda. You always do," he said, now in a whisper yet with an intensity surpassing what he had before. "But this mission's gotta lot of moving parts, and if you go off script, you could blow it for all of us. We've got the manpower. Blue Umbrella's covering the rest. We don't need a wildcard."
Leon had to suppress a scoff, eyes scanning Chris' expression. "Blue Umbrella?" he repeated incredulously, struggling to raise a brow with how they were knitted, but the point gets across regardless. "Yeah, forgive me if I'm not eager to throw out all my doubts for them. We both know their history; we've both seen it. They slap a new color on their logo, call it 'Blue,' and suddenly everything's all good and dandy?
"My job is to make sure Raccoon City never happens again. To make sure Rockfort, Amparo, Harvardville, Lanshiang, whatever the hell else, never happens again. That means I need intel–real intel; not some corporate cover story."
Chris straightened, but Leon didn't move; he only tilted his head up to him. For a moment, he didn't speak. Leon watched from his peripheral. Chris' hands balled at his sides, and his nails dug at his palms. When he did speak, he kept the same volume, but his voice had taken on a sudden sharpness. "You think I trust them? Hell, no. But like it or not, they've got the resources we need. We're on the same mission either way, and if you go rogue–if you ‘Lone Wolf’ it–we could lose our shot at stopping this before it spreads. Before even more lives are lost, B.S.A.A. and civilians both."
"I'm not here to sabotage your mission, Redfield," Leon reminded, though nothing was placating about his tone. If anything, the use of his surname felt more of a mockery than anything else he said. "But I'm not going into this blind either. I'll handle the intel side of things, and if things go sideways . . . don't expect me to sit on the sidelines."
There was a moment where the two just stared at each other, neither daring to be the first to break it. And neither did, but Chris exhaled and at least broke some of the stale tension that'd built. His arms returned to crisscrossing over his chest. "Fine. Just watch your back. Lucas Baker isn't just some bioweapon byproduct. He's smart, he's unpredictable. And not alone. If this goes south, you'll be in the thick of it before you even know what hit you."
Leon only let a faint, humorless smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "Wouldn't be the first time."
Chris looked at him for another moment, something between frustration, worry, and concern flitting about his expression. But it was all covered by a thicket of resignation, solemn or otherwise. "Yeah," he broke his silence. "Just don't make it your last."
JUL.18, 2017 11:00 PM GMT-7
Ethan Winters
Playa del Rey, Los Angeles, California
Los Angeles was never quiet, even at this time of night. Which, when Ethan looked at the corner of his laptop's screen, had just turned eleven. It was something he'd gotten used to over the years, though. A good background noise for work, hobbies, or whatever else. Kept him out of his mind, especially in more recent times. Not that he liked noise or chaos; quite the opposite. But the silence of the countryside was maddening, like a story he'd heard about yellow wallpaper. But . . . well, sound.
Someone blowing their horn far below his apartment tugged him from his thoughts. Sleep weighed heavily on him–particularly his eyelids–but it never wanted to reach its boiling point. Not in the past three years, at least. Even on the rare occasion he could lie down, close his eyes, and not see Mia's face behind his eyelids, he never truly slept. He just drifted in and out of a restless haze, always teetering on the precipice of consciousness.
Tonight hadn't been any different.
It was the only reason he had the glare of his computer burning his retinas. Empty coffee cups and scattered documents cluttered most of his workspace (he remembered telling himself that morning he'd rid his failed attempts to distract himself with work, but he hadn't). If someone asked, he wouldn't be lying if he said he'd tried. He had tried to focus, telling himself he could finish the system diagnostics for his latest assignment–the same that his boss had emailed him about yesterday afternoon, telling him he should've had it done Sunday morning–but his mind kept drifting, slipping back into old, familiar patterns.
Ethan was reminded of Groundhog Day.
His fingers hovered on the mouse, hesitating.
He told himself, he knew, he should close the laptop, turn off the light, close the window, and force himself to lie down. But the ache in his chest was like a hook wrapped in rope and tethered to his chair. His desk. His laptop. The folder he found himself clicking on, the videos that were no stranger to him. No stranger, sure, but it'd gotten no easier either.
Three years. Mia, his wife, had been gone for three years. Less than two months ago, on the twenty-ninth, it had been their anniversary. It would've been their anniversary. The week leading up to and the week following, Ethan hadn't been convinced that he would survive it. If his heart didn't just burst straight out of his chest, then-
The recordings were all he had left. Small, fractured pieces of a life that felt more like a dolled-up fantasy than a reality that once was. At one point, he recalled two sections of his life: before and after Mia's disappearance. Now, the former just felt like it'd been a dream in some feverish haze.
Ethan took a steadying breath and clicked on the first clip. Before the buffering had even finished, the knot in his stomach clenched, and the dread he'd long since been bedfellows with crept in.
The screen flickered, and she was there. Mia's face was bright and warm, smiling at him like he preferred to remember. It was a punch to the gut. It always was, but he seemed to recall it being more like the air had been stolen from his lungs. Now, he could feel the aching bruise blossoming over–through–him.
Her hair caught the sunlight like its throne, her tiara. Seabreeze played with the loose strands and made them dance across supple skin. The sky framing Mia's form was a clear grey-blue, the calm waters beneath it replicating it to a T. It had been a perfect day, made by whatever higher power there was, just for his wife. And even though he couldn't be there, Ethan got to see her radiance, which was a blessing in and of itself.
And now, he was cursing that same power. What a difference a few years could make.
"Hey, Baby!" Mia's voice was light, cheerful, her expression bright as she waved at the man meant to view this video. Ethan's heart twisted. Mia sat down in front of the camera, looking as normal and carefree as she ever should. For a blissful moment, just for a fraction of a second, Ethan could convince himself that she wasn't gone. She hadn't disappeared into the darkness of something he could never even imagine. "I just wanted to send a quick 'hello' and 'I love you.' " she continued, her tone soft, affectionate. But years passed of watching this scene unfold before him, time and time again, and he'd come to pick up the subtle tension underlying her words.
Mia jolted, clasping her hands together in a nervous motion, her smile faltering momentarily as a thought struck her. "Oh! Good news! I'm gonna be coming home soon; yay!" she clapped her hands, trying to maintain her cheerfulness. But to Ethan, it seemed forced; her eyes darted away from the camera as if something hidden would reveal if she looked too long. A strain in her squinted eyes. A strain in her upturned lips. She was trying to convince herself just as much as she was trying to convince her husband. "I cannot wait to be done with this babysitting job." she let loose an exaggerated eye-roll.
She glanced off-screen, her expression tightening before pulling back together. She scrunched her nose playfully, the way she used to do when teasing at him. "And come home to my loving husband," she cooed. She clicked her tongue, expression turning wistful. "I miss you."
Mia shifted again, glancing aside with an exasperated sigh. "I gotta get back to work. I love you, Ethan. I miss you so much–I'm sending tons of kisses," she blew a kiss to him then waved both hands in a farewell that never felt like it'd be their last. "Bye, Baby!"
The video cut abruptly, and Ethan let loose a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His chest constricted with each attempted intake of air; each heavy pounding of his heart felt clearly through his ribs. Before he could even think to prepare himself for the following clip, the screen flickered, and it started.
The tone was a complete foil to the previous. The sun had been replaced by a harsh LED somewhere behind Mia, the clear blues covered by staticky blacks the camera quality couldn't quite pick up. It was utterly claustrophobic. The dim lighting barely revealed his wife's face, skin slick with sweat and streaked with dirt. Ethan's hands instinctively latched to the edge of his desk, knuckles fading to a blistering white. The knot in his stomach lurched again like a boat on rugged waters.
Mia's breaths were shallow and ragged on the screen, eyes wide and darting out of sight. Each jerky movement caused the camera to tilt this way and that, never letting the footage focus entirely.
"Ethan . . ." she said his name carefully, almost cautiously, her voice low and strained. Metal thundered behind her, and she winced in a way that made her whole face contort. "You were right. I did lie to you. I shouldn't have, b- . . ." she faltered, swallowing dryly.
"All . . . I can say is that, if you get this . . . Stay. Away."
The video cut, this time leaving the screen black except for a translucent play button and Ethan's reflection staring back at him.
The words echoed in his mind.
They always did, but it had become a next-door neighbor he'd learned to tune out. But the neighbor was now at his door, banging. Thrashing. Gnawing.
Stay. Away.
It was a warning he was forced to heed for no other reason than opportunity. It was as if Mia Winters existed, then didn't. But even then, he'd not wholly stayed away, no. He'd studied these clips over and over for three years just in case they held some great secret he couldn't comprehend. He was scraping the bottom of the barrel, of course, because it was like trying to decode an ancient language when you're mute. And deaf. And blind. But he hadn't stayed away. He'd stayed as close as life would let him.
Ethan put a hand on the lid of his laptop, ready to close it, when a click permeated his sleepy brain. He stared at the screen for a moment until it registered the click as a notification.
He caught the message in the corner of his screen, but it flashed out of sight before he could preview it. He considered just leaving it be (he didn't want to open it, then deal with the self-war of responding or not responding, forcing himself to be coherent or hiding a read receipt). Still, he was already pulling up his email before he'd reached a conclusion.
All debate left his head blank as soon as he opened the latest unread email.
From: Mia Winters
Sent: July 18, 2017, 11:04 PM Tuesday
To: Ethan Winters
Dulvey, Louisiana.
Baker farm.
Come get me.
The words were stark and simple, standing out amidst the glaring background.
Ethan's breath teetered on an edge, then came to a halt entirely. The words stared at him, through him; they reached past the confines of the screen and held him in a vice, sharp and unyielding. It forced him to trace over the simple phrases again and again, but his mind misfired again and again.
Three years of complete and utterly deafening silence. Three years of nothing.
Mia Winters reached out.
Mia Winters was alive.
Mia Winters wanted her husband to bring her home.
Anger threatened meekly to bubble up, but a newfound purpose lulled it back. One thing was clear, and it was that staying away was null and void. Something that wasn't on the table.
Ethan closed the laptop and sat in the darkness of his–their–room. The white noise of Los Angeles steadily came back into focus as he allowed the reality of what he had just read to seep into him.
Whatever it was, whatever had happened, it didn't matter.
Ethan was bringing his wife home.