THE DOOR TO THE HOUSE WAS CLOSED AND locked and guarded by two men wearing uniforms unlike any Connor had ever seen. They were quiet. They held rifles and wore helmets that shadowed their faces. They stared out and didn’t move.
Connor watched from the yard next door, dark under the curtain of a hot September night. The town around him was still, suspended in the thick, stifling air, and he crept through it silently.
Around him, paper cups and wrappers and colored confetti littered the dirt, dotting it with reminders of the day’s celebration—and of how quickly it had passed.
A morning parade down Main Street, a town-wide feast lasting all afternoon, an award ceremony, an evening full of pomp and circumstance—after-parties with dancing and live music—all celebrating him. Connor Goodman, national hero, first-ever recipient of the General’s Award for Marked Excellence, Promise, and the American Dream. General Lamson himself had come all the way from the capital to present it.
Yet here Connor was now, just two short hours later, stripped of all dignity, locked out of his own house, and sneaking around like some Markless burglar just to get a glimpse inside his own living room window. Humiliating, Connor thought. And yet he wasn’t above it. He had to know what the general was telling his parents inside. He had to hear. America’s newest national hero deserved it.
So when the armed guards at the door finally looked away, down the dirt path of Main Street toward Central Square, scanning momentarily for movement in just precisely the wrong direction, Connor jumped at the chance. In one swift motion, he ran from the shadow of his neighbor’s house all the way into the flowers and bushes lining the back of his own, and he pressed his ear hard against its rough, brown wood siding.
The general’s voice was low, muffled, and distant through the wall. But the tenor notes of his father’s carried through soon enough. Connor held his breath, determined to hear.
“General . . . please. We’re begging you to reconsider. What you are asking of us will bring . . . unbearable suffering to your citizens. Hardship in every corner of this Union!”
There was a pained pause from behind the wall. In that moment, Connor grabbed the window ledge above him, pulled himself up, and peeked through the glass, hoping for a better understanding of the scene inside.
The general was pacing now, his tall frame towering over Connor’s parents. When he did speak, his words came slow and heavy through the windowpane.
“I am . . . aware of the consequences, Mr. Goodman. And I am sympathetic to the risks. I’ve taken a fair share of my own just coming here today. But the time is upon us. This threat is one that could destroy our way of life—our very existence—here in the American Union. We’ve no choice but to eliminate it.
“Ready or not, Mr. Goodman, we find ourselves here. At this crossroads. Today. And without your cooperation . . . without your patriotic commitment . . . this nation of ours will perish from the earth. The Union hangs in the balance. And that, Mr. Goodman, is worth this sacrifice.”
Then the sound of footsteps drowned out the general’s voice. Connor twisted and froze, dangling helplessly from the window ledge above the bushes, holding his breath.
The two guards were silhouetted against the midnight black. Connor swallowed hard.
Two red targeting dots found him, converging to a bright spot over his heart. Remarkably steady. The guards’ hands did not shake.
Think fast. Act now. And with one quick twitch of his wrist, Connor knocked hard on the window to his right. The general came up against it, cupping his hands around his eyes and looking out into the dark yard beyond. He saw Connor there. He saw the red glow of the laser sights. He saw the guards, guns raised, awaiting his order.
General Lamson laughed.