“That is the Department of Defense Criminal Investigative Service,” he said.

“And the FBI,” I whispered, pointing to the yellow lettering on the tactical vests in the photo.

The hospital room felt incredibly small, the sterile smell of antiseptic suddenly sharp in my nose.

A nurse walked past the glass door, her soft-soled shoes squeaking on the linoleum.

My father’s phone rang again.

This time, the caller ID showed the name of his contact at the Pentagon.

“Bennett,” my father answered, his voice returning to its iron command tone.

He listened for several seconds, his jaw tightening until a muscle twitched near his ear.

“Understood,” he said. “We are still in the recovery ward at Saint Jude’s.”

He hung up the phone and looked at me.

“They have Ethan,” he said.

“Is he hurt?” I asked, thinking of the splintering wood I had heard over the receiver.

“The federal agents breached the back door when they saw him trying to shred documents,” my father said.

He sat down on the edge of my mattress, his heavy hand resting near my blanketed feet.