local forces to combat extremist groups. I’d missed Jackson’s first day of kindergarten, Emma’s ballet recital, two Christmases, and, apparently, my wife falling in love with my brother.

I grabbed my duffel from the baggage claim, the familiar weight of my gear a strange comfort. The Philadelphia air hit me as I walked outside—October crisp, carrying the smell of fallen leaves and diesel fuel. I’d arranged my own ride, wanting to surprise Sarah and the kids. My phone had been off during the final transport protocol. I powered it on in the back of the Uber, watching the screen light up with a cascade of notifications. Forty-three text messages, twenty-seven missed calls.