The ocean breeze is clear and cool as I step outside in my crisp, clean dress uniform. My still-wet hair is pulled tightly back into a military-grade bun, not a strand out of its place. Crisp blue clothing with sharp cuffs and tight folds adorns my body, and it does not feel the slightest bit strange. I am used to this by now,  after three years of constantly wearing my uniform at the Academy. It is pretty much second nature for me, now. When I am not wearing my dress uniform, or at least some form of clothing that connects me to my chosen career, I feel almost naked, in some strange way. It is as if I have been stripped of my identity and forced to revert back to what I used to be: another citizen hailing from New London, Connecticut. A mindless shell of a person that has to conform to society, just following along with the paths of my family and the people I used to call my friends.
    I look around, staring out across the glassy surface of the azure-blue water. The wind whips through around me, chilling my bones to their very cores. I shiver slightly, setting my legs onto a more brisk pace than before.
    The boat waits for me, a small vessel with a single-engine outboard motor. I can't wait to jump on board and ride off into the sunset like one of the women in the stories I read as a child. That would be my life's dream - to be mind-bendingly free and not put through the harsh restraints of other people's burning, scrutinizing judgements.
    But then I turn my head, and I see something I would have never expected in all of my years on this job. A stark-white Honda Element is sitting across the parking lot, and there is a handicap sticker hanging from the central console of the car.
    Could it be? No, no way. I am very sure that it could not. Unless . . .
    "Ava!" The voice that meets my ears is definitely, exactly the one I was dreading. It belongs to my boyfriend.
    I whip around to look back toward the docks. Sure enough, Evan Sanchez is rolling towards me, the wheels on his chair squeaking like they always do when he pushes too hard on them, usually a result of his excess excitement over things. But this is nothing to be excited about, which has me more than a bit confused. If anything, we should both be extremely worried and scared for not only our relationship but our lives.
    "Evan, what are you doing here?" That is all that I can push out of my mouth. Not even a simple 'hello,' or a 'how are your legs feeling today?' Just 'what are you doing here?'
    His hands still on his wheels, bringing his chair to a stop in front of me. "I spoke to Captain Bender last night. Before you got home. He agreed to let me go with you on your assignment, and I happily obliged. So, it looks like I will not be leaving you, after all. Are you ready to disembark?"