Chapter 34

Somehow, Sam made it through the work day. Finally, five o’clock came. He stayed at the office, tying up loose ends, trying not to watch the clock.

Six o’clock came.

His office had never looked neater. He was at a loss for what to do. He could eat, but he had no appetite.

Seven o’clock.

Seven-thirty.

At seven-forty-five, he broke down and tried to call Red.

When she didn’t answer, he gazed unseeing out the window and cursed under his breath.

He had to face the fact that he’d have to go get his dad. He would find a new place for him, somehow. Woodcrest wasn’t the only assisted living center in Oregon. But it wouldn’t happen overnight.

The question was what to do with him in the meantime.

He grabbed his keys and headed out.

“Where are you off to in such a rush?” asked Keval.

“Something I got to do.”

In the old consortium, he ran to his room, to ready it for Dad to use until he could find him something better.

He changed the sheets, emptied the top two drawers of the dresser of his clothes to make room for Dad’s. He bent to straighten the throw rug, and when he did, the older of his two duffel bags under the bed caught his eye. He paused, then hoisted it out onto the blanket. The day he packed it came back to him. It was in the midst of a raging haboob, seven thousand miles away from the soft, moist air of the Pacific Northwest.

He was twenty-two and already a seasoned combat veteran, on his way home. He’d sworn he had vanquished his demons and was done with the Army. Hatched a plan to finish school, start a business and a normal life.

But no sooner had he graduated than he found himself sitting for the Officer’s Candidate School exam, to go back in as a lieutenant at age twenty-five.

Some people never learned. They just kept repeating the same mistakes.

He blew the dust off and undid the drawstring. He’d been required to turn in his service weapons, rifle-cleaning kit, hydration harness, and sniper mat, to be reassigned to the next guy. They let him keep his logbook, though. He cradled the spine and let it fall open at random to his KIAs. Like he needed reminding. One thing no marksman ever forgot was his number of kills.

He draped the patriotically striped ribbons across his palm and stared at the three Bronze Stars earned for displaying exceptional courage under fire and reducing risk of harm to coalition troops.

Inside, emotions bubbled and gurgled ominously, like an underground volcano.

He thumbed to his Evaluation and Counseling Record. Most of his marks were “average” and “above-average,” except in the categories of Professional Knowledge and Quality of Work. In those, he was ranked “exceptional.”

Time was running out.

He only had until tomorrow morning.

He knew his dad. He would insist on going back to the old house. But he couldn’t be left alone. Sam would be forced to stay there with him, or hire someone who would, in which case he would still have to check in regularly to be sure he was being properly taken care of.

That is, unless there was no house left to go back to.