The Coast Guard Academy in Connecticut is a rather unfortunate place. Now, don't think that I don't know what I'm talking about. I know. Yes, I know. I spent four years in those sprawling, brightly illuminated hallways and dark, dimly lit dorm rooms. But I made it out. I made it, but I'm still waiting for a deployment. I've been waiting for six long months.
    It all started with Evan Sanchez - my reason for coming to the CGA, that is. Evan is my boyfriend, and he is my everything. The only thing I look forward to at the end of the day, most of the time, after another practically unbearable ten hours of patrol jobs and worthless engineering. Well, not worthless. I suppose that engineering is rather important to what we do here, as we would not have any of our ships, submarines, planes, trains, cars, and automobiles without at least one form of it or another.
    Anyway, my life is always better when I am with Evan. And I'm currently on my way back to see him for the night. The car speeds along and I am ready to be with him once again, listening as David Bowie and Jimi Hendrix blast their genius tunes through the radio of my small, midnight blue Mazda three two thousand and fifteen sedan. Some people may say that my music tastes are a little old-fashioned for a young woman of twenty-four, but that's completely fine. I couldn't care less about what they think of me.
    There's a sharp turn up ahead, and I rocket through it with perfect speed. Oh, yeah. This is where I want to be. High-octane, pure, unrequited energy. But this car is not nearly enough. I want to be on a boat, somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, feeling the salty twang of the open sea air caress my facial features. I want to extend my hand over the edge and feel the shockingly cold water against my skin. But, most importantly, I want to be free. Free from this strict, concealed, ultra-disciplined world that I live in. At the academy, we were never allowed to do anything of our choice, unless it is an organized recreational sport or a training mission. Now that I have graduated, it is only a bit different. I am still stuck in this place, a place I do not want to be in, but there is no way out.
    Well, until I can earn the right to get sent out on that mission I want so badly to be able to go on. Once I get to be sent out there, I will be free to do as I choose and make my own decisions for once, not forced to listen to someone else's barked orders for hours on end.
    These thoughts consume my mind for the rest of the drive back to Evan's small apartment complex. I sit for a moment, waiting for the black-and-yellow-striped bar behind the old, rusted, iron gate to finally swing open. Once it does, I speed into the complex, not caring about anyone stopping me. I need to get home, to see Evan and let him help me to diffuse the arduous stressors of a day in my life.
    Evan knows what it's like. We were in the Academy together, actually, for about three years. Due to the severe rules and regulations regarding relationships within all branches of the United States armed forces, we didn't start dating until my last year there. Evan had already been honorably discharged during our third year with very traumatizing injuries to his leg and head. He had gotten them from a training mission, ironically. One small, inconsequential fall from a skiff had led to him almost splitting his left tibia in half with various other injuries. He had already spent a week in the hospital before he was coherent enough to even recognize his own name being called. The chief officer of our unit had assigned me, Aviana Monroe, just one of some three hundred cadets that haunted the halls of the CGA, to stay with him while he recovered.
    So, I did. I stayed in that bleak, white hospital room with him for almost a month.Luckily, our commanding officer saw the urgency of Evan's condition and let me do so without penalizing me or putting my level of training in jeopardy. That meant I could still move along with the rest of the class when I got back.
    I eventually got back there after Evan was well enough to take care of himself moderately well, and able to do things such as walk, speak normally, and eat without assistance. When I left him alone at his apartment for the first time on my day of return to duty, I had been exponentially concerned, and had insisted that he put his number into my personal cell just in case anything came up. Later that day, I received a text from him that read "Hey, Ava. I just wanted to thank you, for everything. Would you mind coming back over for dinner, tonight? Like, a date?"
    Of course, I had answered that I would be happy to, and our relationship had progressed from there. It has been nearly a year and a half, now, since that fateful night. And we are still going strong to this day.
    I pull my car into the space designated for me with bright, reflective blue tape, my half of the garage. Evan's stark white Honda Element sits in his half, roped off with black duct tape. The car is hardly ever used; it mostly just sits there, abandoned, like a broken, wasted memory. They are organized this way to help him see things more clearly, as his brain got a little screwed up during the accident. He needs the extra help, sometimes. That's also usually what I am here for: helping him to retain some semblance of a normal life.
    Getting out of the car, I grab my bag, shut the door, and walk up the stairs to Evan's apartment.
    "Hello?" My voice rings out against the awful beige color of the walls. "Evan?"
    The sound of squeaking wheels hits me, and I instantly know what it is. I turn to see my boyfriend's wheelchair rolling down the hallway. Even sits in it with a beaming smile on his face. "There she is. My Ava." He propels himself all the way to me before stopping in front of my feet.
    "Hey, Ev," I answer in reply, bending down to wrap my arms around his neck. "How was work, today?" Evan works at the Xtra Mart on the corner, just down the street from us. It was the easiest option at the time when we were looking at potential jobs for him.
    "Decent enough," he answers, looking up at me. "There was some crazy guy that tried to climb the shelves in the pharmacy, which freaked the crap out of Sheldon. Mike had to get the ladder to get him down. On top of that, old Mrs. Benson needed her special brand of cat food, but we were out, so I had to call Mario over at our sister store to come and help us. He didn't have any, either, so I spent twenty minutes trying to convince her to buy a different brand."
    "Wow," I remark slowly, standing back up. "Sounds . . . interesting." In all honesty, his job is harder than mine, most of the time. Evan has to deal with people bordering the edge of mental retardation, and help the general public, but all I get to spend my time doing is staring at worthless patrol reports and walking across sketchy parts of cities I am not familiar with where no one speaks to me or even gives me a second glance most of the time. So, yeah, sometimes I envy the fact that my boyfriend works at a convenience store. It is not that weird, if you really think about it.
    I feel a buzz in my pocket, at first not sure what could be causing it, but then I remember that I left my phone on vibrate. Biting back a cry of surprise and confusion, I fish the cellular device out of my crisp, dark blue pants the small black box continues to ring until I press the answer button and draw it to my ear.
    "This is the United States Coast Guard line, Aviana Monroe speaking. Who is this?"
    "Check your phone, cadet," a deep voice resonates from the other end of the connection. I immediately recognize it as belonging to my captain, Sean Bender.
    "I apologize for my incompetence, Sir. What is it that you need?"
    Captain Bender is quiet for a few long moments that seem to stretch into hours. Finally, he answers.
    "Monroe, pack a bag. You're going on a mission."