"I told you to hide," the woman urged, slightly pushing me forward. With one puff, she abruptly blew out the candle, leaving a curled, thin trail of smoke floating above in the air and trapping us in complete darkness. Even in the pitch black, I could sense the lingering fear in her voice. "Hurry. Go out beyond those trees and keep heading outwards. Why aren't you moving? Come!"

"Did you see a soldier?"

"Doesn't matter who it is. I don't want anyone finding two Khonies out here."

"But I never even got your name," I signed, pressing the formed words in her waiting palm. She did not respond, and grabbed at my elbow, leading us out into the now cold, frigid air. The silence of the woods made me believe that she had perhaps been hearing things of her own.

Behind us, Pepper and Honey became wild, ecstatic. Their teeth were bared. Bits of saliva flew from their open jowls as they continued to bark.

"It's Janice," she mumbled. "I won't tell you again. Stop lingering around, find a place as far as you can from the open. And stay there. The dogs and I will scout the area and make sure it's clear. I know what I heard. They're going to do nothing once they see a madwoman like me out here."

"But---"

"Go," she sternly said. "You find a place for you and your baby. That's what you need to worry about now. That's the only thing that should be on your mind."

"But how will I be able to--"

Without another word, she slipped between the trees and bushes, her shoes barely making a sound against the ground. Pepper and Honey's barks fell through the air. A deep heaviness fell over me, her presence had been comforting, and I did not want her to leave me alone. An owl hooted above, before its bright yellow eyes fell on me. Panicked, I began to rush forward in the pitch black, ignoring the pain in my lungs and chest. As I held Evander's sleeping form close to me, I wondered if I were able to find my way back to her, if she wanted me to come back.

Most likely not.

* * * * *

A light rain gradually descended upon us as I trudged through the mud and leaves, coughing heavily. I ached for the warm, dry blanket back at her shelter, and my stomach was starting to rumble. To my dismay, I found that this part of the wilderness, one that was covered dense vegetation, was one that I lacked familiarity with. Adjusting my satchel, I peered down to check on my son. He slept peacefully, his very small fingers curled around and settling on his palm. I kissed his face, held him close, promised him that I would find him somewhere safe and comfortable.

I wasn't sure how many miles I had walked, but as the first signs of daylight appeared in the distance, something met my vision. In a daze, I pushed aside a tree branch with my waist. Something that wasn't supposed to be there stood in front of me.

Something that clashed with the very reality it was supposed to be a part of.

It was hard to tell at first, but underneath all of the vines and moss and ivy that coated the surface, stood a civilian's house, surrounded by a rusted gate. The roof itself was overtaken by the neighboring trees. And it wasn't just any ordinary home. This one was very large, strikingly similar to the homes belonging to the Red Mamba official's homes up north, where I had taken many trips up in disguise. Despite its dilapidated state, I saw how the cracked brick steps, the crumbling ivory statues, the gold plated front door and windows, which were now smashed in or covered up with wooden boards, all appeared to still be in tact.

Who would build a mansion in the middle of nowhere? I thought. Why here, out of all places?

When I glanced down at the ground, I noticed that despite all of the tall, untamed weeds that grew around me, I was standing in the middle of a driveway. An old car; the windows mottled and gray, was parked against the side of the house, as if it had been there for decades, perhaps even more. One headlight was smashed, but I could tell that it once was a luxury vehicle, due to the delicate paint job under the coat of dust and mold.

A calm wind blew around me, causing my hair to rise and fall over my shoulder. I took a step back, hesitant, not wanting to enter the property, but also not wanting to remain a moment longer in the dark, silent woods. With a deep breath, I held my son as close as I could to me, glancing up at the gray sky. It had begun to pour a bit harder.

My legs were shaking, but I bit down on my jaw and took a few quick strides across the driveway, not daring to look up and at the boarded windows. The gusts of wind grew stronger around me, and, in the midst of my panic, I reached the sagging porch as a bolt of lighting struck the sky. A creaking noise came from within the house, as if it were groaning. Shakily, I gently kicked at the edge of the rotten door, startled by how it easily swung open, banging against the side of the brick wall.

Unwilling to step inside the pitch black without a light, I stayed still, pondering. My eyes fell upon a chair. After dusting off the cobwebs and propping my satchel up and fashioning the material to resemble some sort of bed, I gently placed Evander on top, lying him directly on his back as he slept. I made sure that the chair was positioned before me so that it was never out of my sight.

The storm was getting worse, but, in the midst of my desperation, I spied a stack of broken boards on the sagging porch. Making sure to avoid the gaping holes visible upon on the rotting floor, I reached out and grabbed a firm stick, a few split pieces of wood, relieved to see that they weren't dampened by the pouring rain.

Kneeling upon the ground, after managing to drill a cavity in the board's surface, I began to frantically twist the stick back and forth as fast as I possible could with my two feet, making sure to get a good grip on it, ignoring the burning sensation building up in between my legs. A thin layer of smoke had formed around the small shaving gathering around the hole, and finally, a small flame ignited on the wooden surface.

I grabbed the opposite end of the stick and secured some dried moss and leaves stuck to the side of the rotten brick wall. The flame caught nicely towards the end of my new makeshift torch, leaving a bright orange and yellow blaze upon the wall, a halo of yellow surrounding us. After carefully picking up Evander, I inched towards the door, which was open a crack. Using my left hip, I gently pushed it all the way, flinching at the groaning sound that the rusted hinges made.

* * * * * *

The smell of mud met my nose.

A staircase, graceful underneath the force of nature that was slowly overpowering its surface, became visible under my small light. Even then I could see how the carvings of the wood and the railings were carefully placed at the side of each tread, which lead upstairs, a dark, abyss of the unknown. The hairs on the back of my neck rose, as I saw how the entire thing could collapse and break down either moment, let alone could it bear my weight. But beside the pattering of the rain, the house was silent and still—an empty tomb for the souls of those who once dwelled here.

It indeed was the biggest house I’ve ever seen yet.

I sneezed a couple of times---the noise echoed inside. Holding out the torch again, I let the light fall upon the moldy, peeled up carpet, the steps covered in cobwebs, smashed windows, and sagging walls. In a daze, I wandered down the long, winding hallway, which led to many rooms. To my great surprise, it was full of stuff. Lots of stuff. Expensive looking furniture, books, an elegantly carved piano, and a very large kitchen with marble countertops, gold rimmed sink handles, crystal glasses, silverware--even a refrigerator, oven and electronic stove. The blue digital clock on top behind the dusty screen read 3:45 AM, and I was surprised it still worked. Surely the electricity could still be functioning, but I didn’t want to take my chances of being discovered.

The dining room itself was a wonder.

When I looked up, I could see my reflection up on the ceiling, which was mostly still in tact. Detail upon detail upon detail marked each tile, and large paintings hung from the wall. One was of a landscape of a distant land that seemed to belong to an ancient story book, and a few portraits of men and women that I did not recognize. Whoever designed this hole certainly had an eye for style, and I wondered if they had been in their right mind to spend so extravagantly on a home and then leave it to rot for years.

After admiring the texture that the artist decided to use, something caught my attention in the corner of the room. I placed my satchel on the ground, and, after readjusting Evander in my arm, I held my torch out, my arm slightly shaking.

It was a desk, next to a moth eaten chair, with the velvet cushioning destroyed and with yellowed stuffing coming out of it. I wasn't exactly sure what drew me towards it. After setting the torch down on a rusty candleholder, I pried at the drawers. The top one was locked, but the bottom one came out a little easier after a bunch of tugging. When I looked inside, there were a stack of envelopes, a few papers that were so water-damaged that it was hard to make out the cursive handwriting scrawled out on the surface.

Evander slowly yawned, his eyes squeezed tight. I sat down upon the chair and began to bounce him in my arm, gently kissing his warm forehead. I had no business being here, as anyone who claimed this place as their own could be back within the next couple minutes. Yet, as I gazed around the dark, empty room, a frown fell upon my face. How had no one come by and cleaned the house out? The items here were worth hundreds, tens of thousands of rupees. The furniture alone could keep a family fed for years.

Finally, who in their right mind would decide to leave their personal belongings out here?

Who would even build a home in the middle of nowhere? From what I knew, civilians liked to live in close knit communities. Even my own people did not stray away from each other. I remember even as a little girl, before my grandmother had passed away, she would always make sure that each man or woman, no matter how old or young, would have a shelter over their heads. The villagers would help pitch in building a new mud hut for a welcomed member.

I shivered and looked out of the window, which was partially hidden by the torn curtains. The pouring rain hadn't let up one bit. Only a couple of hours more, and my son and I would be far away from here. What I needed to do what to find a way to keep us both warm and dry in the meantime. Surely, there was a fireplace around here, although I wasn't exactly sure when was the last time the chimney had been cleaned out. But it was better to find out then freeze to death. And a fire would make me feel better, clear my mind a bit.

Reluctantly, I stumbled to my feet, awkwardly stumbling on the carpet. I remembered the pile of wood on the corner of the porch and started to head out there. But before I could even take a step forward, something fell from the open desk drawer. As I reached down to pick it up, my throat went dry at the sight of the grainy photograph. It was damaged due to some round spots of color missing.

My fingertips slowly curled around the edge. A man and a woman stood still against a gray backdrop. The man, although frail looking, held onto his wooden cane with authority. The woman had her wrinkled hands folded in front of her legs. They wore faded, washed out clothing, and their eyes were stern. But what startled me the most was the young boy who sat in front of them. He was dressed similar to the man, except he wore a large coat covered with many patches over overalls and a shabby straw hat on his head. A few strands of bright yellow hair poked out from underneath the ragged rim, and, based on his facial features, he looked nothing like the couple at all. The only thing he shared in common was that he had the same posture as both adults.

I turned the photograph over in my hand.

* * * * * * *

A searing pain settled beneath my skull. There were colors, so many colors, and then suddenly I felt heavy, very heavy, like I weighed over a thousand pounds.

And then, there was light. An orange light.

I blinked and rubbed my face. Panicked, I realized that Evander was no longer with me. In haste, I began to run, and yet, I was no longer going anywhere. I was stuck to the ground like molasses, and it was a challenge to move my ankles. Breathless, I turned my head. The sky was orange and blue and purple. The sun was rising, and its shadow casted light upon a town. A town that was just about to wake up from its slumber, with its shops and buildings and schools. I frantically tried to move so I could begin to look for my son, but something was holding me down.

The sound of a horse loudly neighing in the distance startled me. Someone was shouting, some pails and tools toppled over, and a cat loudly shrieked before running out in the open road, its long curly tail flowing behind as it scampered for safety. There were a few grunts, glass shattering, curse words.

Then, before I could barely comprehend what was in front of me, the two double doors opened with a loud bang, the momentum causing dust to rise in the air.

A young man toppled out, slamming sideways onto the ground, attempting to scramble to his feet. He was filthy and dressed in rags, covered head to toe in bruises and scrapes. Another short, chubby man stood in the opening, holding a pitchfork, seething with rage. The only thing that wasn't red on his face was his mustache and his black, beady eyes. He gritted his teeth and shook his meaty fist.

"You rat," he hollered. "I oughta skin you alive. If I catch you on my property again for stealing, I'll call the police. Now get out of here, before I get my gun. You eating the grain that belongs to my horses. That's money, boy. That's not cheap."

The young man weakly got up. His bare feet were bruised and bleeding. I winced when I saw he had a black eye, which was hidden under the thick blond hair that fell over his face. He did not look behind him, not even as the stable owner continued to yell and jeer at him. He weakly limped down the empty road, turning a corner. As I followed him, I was startled by how tall and thin he was; and his ribs showed through his pale skin.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, the streets became more congested. Women set their tents up on the side of the road, while men help load goods on the rusty beds of their trucks. I saw how the young man watched them from the shadows of the alleyway, and his large blue eyes wandered towards the colorful produce that the women had out on display. The scents of perfumes and spices filled the warm air, slightly masking the foul scent that lingered within it, and it was evident that everyone was preparing for a hot day. Children played near a busted water pipe, splashing and giggling.

The young man aimlessly wandered by. His face was one that I could not wrap my head around, but I could feel that hunger pains shook his body. In a trance, he stumbled down behind one of the nearby homes in the city and settled behind the dumpster, eagerly hunting through the towering pile of waste. The stench was so bad it made my eyes water, but it didn't seem to bother him a bit. He started at the bottom, scooping away at the sewage, paper and plastic with his bare hands, digging frantically. And when he slowly looked up, I soon found what his sunken blue eyes settled on. It was a window, on one of the nearby apartments, on a hanging clothesline.

He glanced to his left, then to his right. He then rushed forward in a daze, amongst the buzzing flies and garbage and the fecal matter clinging to his arms and legs. Ducking low on his feet, he clambered his way through the tall grass, nearly tripping a couple of times, before he finally reached the window. He slowly placed two palms on the glass, and I could see he was so focused on.

A freshly baked blueberry pie with a golden crust had been left out. Salivating, he leaned closer until his nose and forehead were pressed on the glass. He looked down, as if debating for a moment, before he suddenly began to swing at the glass with his fists, one after the other. A large crack spread across its surface, and then, a loud crashing noise echoed in the air. He reached inside. As a dog began to loudly bark, he took off dashing across the backyard, knocking over a grill on the side of the fence and causing charcoal dust to fly into the air. Blood dripped across the grass and stained the half crushed pie between his mangled fingers.

Someone shouted, but the young man kept running down the street, pushing and shoving past people. He had reached the edge of the woods until he finally stopped. Breathless, he sat down on the ground, before scooping up the warm pie with his bloody hand and began shoving it into his mouth so fast that I was surprised he didn't choke. Chewing loudly, he kept peering from behind the branches, sweat beading on his forehead, blueberry jam smeared across his face. He cleaned the rest of his fingers, licking each and every morsel, until the barrel of a gun was pointed at the back of his neck. Panic rushed to his eyes.

"Drop it."

The voice was rough and scratchy. Without hesitation, the young man released the tin plate. He did not move, and his thin, dirty chest rose and fell as he slowly placed his hands up in the air.

"Stand up for me."

As the young man staggered to his feet, I soon made out who was holding the gun. Another man, though a bit smaller than him, positioned the pistol directly at the square of his skull. He had dark hair, dark brown eyes. He calmly spoke each word, although he seemed greatly taken about by his hostage's condition--the blood visible on his arms and dripping and the end of his fingers.

"Now turn around."

It took him a while to do so, but he did, keeping his arms up and his eyes on the ground. The owner of the gun squinted his eyes as he looked him up and down. Then, he suddenly scowled.

"What's your name?" he demanded. “Who are you?”

The young man seemed startled by the question, and slightly glanced up at him. "Michel."

"What the hell do you think you're you doing?"

"I'm....I'm r--really...sorry," Michel whispered. "P--please don't c-call the a-authorities."

The other man scoffed and turned, beginning to walk away. Sweat stains were under his arms, and his button down shirt was streaked with grass stains, most likely where he’d fallen a few times in his pursuit. "I’m going to them right now. You’re lucky I left you standing on your own two feet.”

A look of despair dwell upon Michel’s face, and he immediately rushed in front of him, blocking his path. Surprised, the man took a step back, before narrowing his eyes.

“Getting feisty, aren’t we?”

“I…c-can…” Michel pleaded, glancing quickly behind him. “I-I-I can find a way to p-pay for f-for it.”

“Pay? By what, stealing something else?” he scoffed. “Pay with what? You done broke my mother’s window, ruined the pie she was planning to bring for my aunt, and now you’re asking me for a job?”

I saw how badly Michel's bloodied hands were shaking. He stared at the ground.

”Outta my way,” the man mumbled, stepping aside. When Michel attempted to block his path again, he gripped the gun. “If you don’t move, I’ll blow your head clean off your shoulders.”

“P-please, there’s g-got to b-be s-something. A-anything y-y-you’d like. I c-can t-try.”

”You can’t do a thing but steal.”

”I—I k-know h-h-how to farm s-s-some. A-anything t-that n-needs work, j-j-just show me,” Michel pleaded. His eyes were wide.

“We’re not in the country, you fool,” the other man cursed. "What am I going to do about the window? Ma's going to freak when she sees that. And don't even get me started on how high Pa's blood pressure is going to get when he sees her throwing a fit." He gave him a disgusted look. "And it's all your fault, you dirty, lowlife thief. You can't even speak properly."

"I'm s-s-sorry," Michel quietly said, lowering his head. "I-I'm truly....t-truly...s-s-sorry."

A long silence passed. The other man, he couldn't have been much older than him, he exhaled as he took a good, hard look at the pie thief. Michel bit his lower lip—he seemed to brace himself, praying almost that he wouldn’t go back to town and alert the authorities. He was about to turn and walk away when the man asked him a question.

”You hungry, aren’t ya?”

A nod.

”When’s the last time you ate something?”

“F-four d-days ago.”

"Well, no wonder, then. Why didn’t you just knock and ask for help? You from around here?"

Michel shook his head.

"You alone?"

Another slight nod.

"And you don't have anywhere to go?"

”No.”

The man grunted and put his gun away, before holding out a hand. "My name's Morgan."

Michel hesitated, before slowly accepting the handshake. As he shyly looked up, Morgan slightly chuckled, almost like he had the wheels turning around the back of his head, like a strange, outrageous idea. Finally, he snapped his fingers together.

”Of course!” he exclaimed. “Of course!”

”Huh?”

"How old are you?"

"N-n-n...ninetee--"

"Close enough. You're the perfect age to enlist."

A look of disbelief fell on his face. "W-what?"

Morgan rolled his eyes. "The army." Then a broad grin spread across his face. "It'd be perfect. You look just like my cousin Earl. You're the spitten image of him too. Of course, without the blueberry sauce and blood all over your face." He suddenly slapped his hands together. "Why didn't think about it before? It really is perfect! All you gotta do is to act like him. The mannerisms, the voice. It's just the mannerisms, that's it. I swear. If you enlist, then I have don't have to take his place, and I can finally attend school in the fall. Then Ma will stop nagging at me about me failing to do---"

Michel awkwardly wiped the side of his mouth. "I..I...d-d-don't understand."

"Of course you don't. But not to worry. I'll explain to you on the way home. You can stay for dinner, can you? After you get cleaned up, you can borrow some of my clothes. You look like you could use a few meals. And trust me, you'll think a lot better with your head, not your stomach."

"B-but I....I..."

"Don't worry about it," Morgan said, clamping a hand on his shoulder and leading him away. Their two shadows spread out on the ground as they continued down the path. "We might have to go through the back of the house in case anyone sees you."

The dizzy, nauseating feeling settled over me again. After receiving a proper meal, and a decent bath, I saw how Michel finally stood in front of a mirror. He had on a strange uniform, which did not fit him all, and bandages lined the bleeding gashes on his arms. He fumbled with the buttons, took a deep, slow breath, and focused again on the mirror, almost like he was afraid of looking at his reflection. When he finally gathered the courage to, he straightened up, pulled his skinny shoulders back, gave a slight, sheepish smile. Blond hair hung over his face, and he quickly tucked back the loose strands behind his large ears, which protruded out on both sides of his face.

“M-my name is E-Earl,” he whispered, placing his fingertips on the glass. “E-Earl B-baker. I..I’m s-six f-foot t-tall. I-I weigh a h-hundred and e-eighty p-pounds. I—“ He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. “N-no, th-that won’t d-do.”

There was a quick knock on the door. He turned around and saw Morgan standing over the threshold, clamping a hand over his forehead.

“No, no, no!” he exclaimed. “You have the entire thing inside out. And why aren’t you wearing a belt with the pants?” With a heavy sigh, he glanced at the clock. “My mother is about to be home soon. You better leave.”

He must’ve seen the look of growing discouragement on Michel’s face, but he shook his head. “Not to worry. Everything will be fine. You just got to stick to the plan.”

“The plan.”

“It has to,” Morgan replied. “Because it doesn’t, you’re going to jail, my cousin really won’t want to come back into town now, Ma’s going to be prescribed a new anxiety med, and I’ll be a private in the fall.” He rubbed his lower jaw. “We just got to work on your speech. Plus, you’re far too skinny. Earl was at least a good two hundred and twenty pounds, and even after he lost some weight, he still had a bit of muscle to him. You, on the other hand, my friend, definitely look like you’ve been in a war camp.”

”I-I can try to eat more.”

“Meh,” the other man replied. “We only have a couple of months. We’ll adjust. Besides that, you and cousin Earl could be twins. He’s twenty, I’m eighteen.” He wrinkled his eyebrows. “You could maybe pass for twenty, if you decide to grow a beard.”

Michel nodded in dismay. “W-w-will I be able to come b-back t-t-tomorrow? I-I can t-try again.”

“Of course you’re coming back tomorrow. Just not until after four,” Morgan mumbled. “I won’t be able to get out of class until then, and my parents and sister will be getting ready to leave for work. And not during weekends, either, I better not catch you around here.”

So the young man awkwardly nodded, attempted to fold the clothes and place them on the chair, before being handed a paper bag full of sandwiches and shooed out the house by Morgan. He ate his dinner quickly, but not near the dumpster where he seemed to find the scraps that made the foundation for his meals. Day after day, he attempted to write in the dirt, upon the baked concrete with a broken piece of chalk upon the ground. And each evening, they sat at the kitchen table, where he began reading out loud much more.

I soon found myself with them in the middle of a basement. Dozens of books and paper were sprawled across the large table. Morgan rested both of his legs at the edge, his boots glowing in the light. Two half eaten plates of food sat nearby. Michel was pacing back and forth, slowly reciting the words out of an old book, when Morgan shook his head and folded his arms.

In the distance, classical music was playing on a radio. The room was full of cigarette smoke, a few crumpled beer cans lined the ground.

"No, no, no. Slow down. Stop rushing, you’re eating up your words again. What did we just talk about? It's compensation, not compansation. Compensation. Remember our vowels? Try it again. I don’t want you run out of breath in front of my parents. Remember, you are not Michel. You are Earl. Earl Baker. Just what I told you. Sound it out and take your time. As it matter of fact, start from the beginning. One more time, alright?"

”Yeah.”

“Didn’t your folks send you to school?”

The young man gave him sideways glance, before making his way towards the edge of the table and drawing a circle around the word on the page with a pen. His nose was buried in a book. He looked a lot more cleaner, and the jacket and jeans he had borrowed from his friend were pressed and ironed. His rumpled blond hair hung past his ears. Gone was the frantic, crazed look his large blue eyes; now they appeared more calm, serious, and focused.

The orchestra music continued in the background.

"Remember, I've already added Earl's information in the military database," Morgan continued, taking a last puff of his cigarette and squashing it beneath his shoe. "All you got to do is literally show up at the base camp and begin training next Monday at 5 am sharp. And you better not be late, or all of our hard work will be for nothing." An annoyed look fell his face.

"Compensation," Michel quietly repeated to himself. "Compensation." He smoothed out a wrinkled sheet of paper on the table and began to write out on its surface.

"Hey!"

Michel glanced at him.

"Are you listening to me?"

He silently nodded, kept writing.

Morgan released an exasperated sigh. "What did we say that we will do next week?"

"I show up on base.” Michel finally put down his pencil. “Monday morning.”

"Under whose name?"

"E-Earl B-Baker." Michel bent down and began flipping through the pages, before setting it back down upon the table. A faint smirk appeared on his lips as he drew another circle around a word. "Earl Baker. Yes, that's his full name."

Morgan raised an eyebrow."What are you doing that for?"

"I'm just marking the page so t-that I can practice later. References are important.”

Morgan paused to light another cigarette. "You know; you've picked up things pretty fast, considering that we've been doing this every night for three months. And you were reading at a first grade level when we started." He stood up and placed his hands into his pockets. "Don't worry about the stuttering too much, Michel. Everyone stumbles over their words from time to time. You just remember our exercises. Breathe, take your time, sound out the word. Control, remember? That's all you got to do."

”M-m-may I ask you a question?”

“What?”

”Why don’t you want to go?”

“Hell naw. Go? To my grave? To be part of an army? To be with a group of guys in which we could be killed at any moment? No thank you, I’m staying right here and getting my engineering degree.”

”S-school c-can wait. Why not serve y-your country? B-be a m-man of honor.” He fixed his gaze on the book, speaking softly. “To have courage. T-to not be afraid of a-anything. Why do you wish to remain afraid?”

“A man of honor?” Morgan laughed. “What do you know about honor?”

“It’s about bringing justice to those who deserve it.” Michel’s blue eyes never left the page. “Full retribution. Peace. Those who cause suffering are punished themselves. They will be torn into pieces. They shall experience the very pain that they have inflicted upon their victims. That is honor. That is worth fighting for, my friend.”

Morgan shifted in his seat and cleared his throat, taken back by his stern tone.

A gentle smile then formed on Michel’s face, like the sun had broken through the clouds. "I k-know I have a lot to learn. C-can you show me m-more difficult words?"

Morgan scratched his head. “I guess, if you want. But don’t forget our plan for next week. That’s the one thing you need to remember. This war stuff isn’t so fascinating to begin with anyways. I’d rather do more interesting things with my life.” He smiled. “Like going to school to become an engineer.”

Michel nodded, though he looked like he was barely paying attention. He ran a jagged finger across the page. "This material is fascinating. A-absolutely fascinating. With all of the war strategies and the evolving weapons that o-our military has used in the past. Can I take t-this with me?"

"I don't care what you do what those damned books," Morgan said, shrugging his broad shoulders. "Just make sure to keep your head out of them for at least five minutes. You owe me big. Big, you hear? You make sure to be here at nine am sharp Saturday morning. In the kitchen. With the uniform I gave you. Remember? That's the day—”

"----you and Earl are supposed to talk to your parents," Michel finished. He was still scanning the page. The violin music swelling from the radio filled the heated air. When he placed the book on the table, his blue eyes gleamed. "D-don't worry, Morgan. I won't let you down. I promise."

Soon, the music began to fade away, followed by dead, radio silence. In my tunnel vision, I saw him. He ran with others dressed in camouflage, did push-ups in the pouring rain, climbed ropes until his hands bled and split open, fired bullet after bullet after bullet. He lifted weights in the gym long after everyone had left. He did dozens upon dozens pull-ups on a rusted rail, gritting his teeth. He ran fifteen miles in the early morning hours, his breath visible in the cold air, dark sweat stains forming around his chest and back on his filthy T shirt.

I saw how his body stiffened when he received a test with a F scrawled across the top. He sat on the floor the middle of the bookshelf aisle in the library, books scattered all around him. He wrote in notebooks with neat handwriting, murmuring to himself, biting at the edge of his pencil. Classical music blasted out of the headphones he had over his ears. He got yelled at by a drill sergeant. He went up against another man much bigger than him in a boxing ring, got punched and socked repeatedly in the face, stood under a cold shower with a busted nose, a swollen upper lip and unmoving blue eyes.

Covered in mud and with his boots sloshing against the puddles in the pouring rain, he hoisted his body over a net and made his way through obstacle course after obstacle course. At the boxing ring, his blows were more powerful, his feet light and quick against the ground—it was evident that had begun to put on muscle on his thin frame. As his opponent went down with a broken nose and missing teeth, he spat blood out of his mouth into a plastic container.

He ate his all meals alone, and during certain holidays, he spent hours upon hours in the empty gym until his hands bled. Time to time he would gaze at the window, covered in sweat, his face downcast. For the rare moments he did go out into the large city, dressed in a long dark coat and pants, he would wander aimlessly about the same way he used to do on the streets, hungry not for food, but for those around him who passed him, laughing with their friends.

High ranking officers shook his hand, gave him one award after another. He spoke at many events, dressed in a uniform with badges attached to his breast pocket, and at all the dinner parties he attended, he simply sipped his glass of champagne as several women flocked over to his table, giggling.

And between the slippery sheets of his bed, as his left hand gripped the edge of the rocking mattress, his agonized groans grew heavier with a different woman each night, causing the headboard to slam against the wall, making a mark against the plaster. He would not look in their eyes. He sat at the edge of his bed all night while they slept, the blanket bundled around his waist, staring at nothing in front of him.

In the rare moments he did sleep, his face was halfway buried into the endless stacks of books on top of his desk as the sun began to rise in the sky.

And soon, I stood at the edge of a wheat field, nearby a sagging barn with the roof slanted, and a pen with pigs and chickens separated. A few rusted tools rested on the side of the fence, and drops of water fell from an old bucket into the shallow well. But I was well aware of where I was, and I was confused why I was brought here at all. My feet were nailed to the burning hot ground, under the bright blue sky. The rest of the place was bleached out, like an unfinished canvas.

Ahead of me, the shack remained.

In the distance, a thick trail of dust rose in the air. A vehicle sped upon the uneven dirt path, engine roaring, more dust rising. As it made a sharp right turn on the corner of the wheat field nearby the shriveled mango tree, I noticed that the gravestone was no longer there.

The bright red mustang slowly pulled up onto a patch of grass, the tires leaving tracks on the earth. The smell of cologne and leather met my nostrils. As the window on the driver’s side rolled down, through the side mirror, I could make out the large sunglasses he wore. He leaned out and rested his hand on the door, his fingers lightly drumming against the fresh paint; the golden chain of a watch hung from his wrist.

He silently sat there, the wind catching in his blond hair, letting the car idle, before taking off the sunglasses. His large blue eyes never left the door.

The tail lights then flashed, before he finally turned off the engine, fumbling with the keys. Slowly, he opened the door on the driver’s side and stepped out, making his way towards the wheat field, gently pushing the stalks aside.

I saw the back of his golden head as he walked through the tall, overgrown grass up to where the shack was. His hair had been neatly cropped, and the loose button down shirt and dark blue jeans he had on were crisp, without a wrinkle. He came around the back first, running his hand against the wood. A few chickens ran across his path, and he stopped to look at them, before stepping in front of the door.

Michel gently knocked with his fist. “Ma? Pa?” he quietly called. “It’s me.”

A cow bellowed in the distance, chewing its cud, before lowering its great head to feed on the grass. An old bell hung around its neck. He turned to gaze at it for a moment, broadly smiled, and then stared at the door again. His teeth were very white.

“I got promoted,” he softly said.

He stood still for a long time. The chickens behind him began to peck at the ground. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a large white envelope, and placed it on the middle of the doorstep.

“I’ve got some money for you. I’ll leave it right here.”

Silence.

He took a shaky breath, began to pace all around the place, the soles of his white converse sneakers crunching against the gravel. He gazed longingly at the two small windows, which were covered up by patched tapestries blowing in the hot wind.

For a long while, he sat down on an upside down water bucket, near the clucking chickens. He glanced at the closed shack door from time to time, as if hopefully anticipating someone would step out.

“I could tell you about Jova, Pa.” His voice wavered a bit. “I’d know for sure you’d love it. I do. It’s a beautiful place with lots of people. And towns. All you could think of. I really want to take you and Ma up there. Just for a couple of days—or however long you’d like.” He wrung out his hands. “I…I don’t usually get any visitors. B-because of work, you know? I see people with their families, and I…I…”

As he struggled to get through the sentence, I saw how he blinked quickly, a couple of times. Then, he began to pull his shoulders back, tighten his jaw, like he was biting down on his tongue after stuttering. He did not look at the door again.

“I…I know you don’t like me coming here that often, but I just want to see how you’re doing.” He gradually stood up, focused his gaze on the pigpen.“You don’t know it, but I…I come almost every day. I can never be too busy for you. I don’t come too close though. Just watch you both from a distance. I see you got some new hogs, Pa. And Ma, you’re growing tomatoes. They look lovely.” He placed a hand on the fence. “Roma and Cherokee purple are in season.”

The leaves rustled above.

Michel looked down. “I’ve been writing letters, Pa. I check the post office everyday, but I don’t get anything back. I’d love it if you both could come down for dinner sometime.”

Finally, I was able to catch a glimpse of his still, solemn face. He looked a bit older, maybe in his mid twenties. To my surprise, a hint of a loose smile gathered on his lips. But it was not a confident one, one that I had been so used seeing on him. He suddenly took a few awkward steps back into the wheat field, his car keys dangling from his left hand, his arms stretched in opposite directions.

“Pa, I’ve…I’ve read a thousand books all about agriculture. About soil fertilization and composting and microbes and sustainability. I can help you with this place. I want to.”

He faintly smiled, although his bottom lip trembled.

”Why don’t you let me fix the barn roof? You need to tell me about these things. Anything you need, you just tell me. But you don’t say very much these days. I’d really like it if you wrote back just once. It’s been ages since I’ve seen you, Pa. I just want to see you. I don’t get to see anyone up there—and I don’t know how much I can take, coming home to an empty place.”

His blue eyes were watery.

“But I have a surprise for you. I brought a house. You and Ma are going to love it. It has six bedrooms, six baths. A huge backyard where you can do as much gardening as you like. There will be food delivered to you every single day. There’s king sized mattresses for the both of you, so you don’t have to sleep on a straw mat ever again. And there’s even a pool.” Michel lowered his arms, his voice growing louder. “You don’t have to worry about monthly payments, light, electricity, water. I paid off the mortgage last month in cash. I—”

The wind began to howl, blowing my skirts and the dried, bent wheat stalks.

“Whenever you and Ma are…are ready to move in, it’s all ready. It’s all waiting for you. And there’s no use having a house if you can’t share it with anyone.” His voice cracked, and his smile slowly faded away. “Please, won’t you come and stay with me?”

A bird flew off a overhanging branch.

”Please,” he whispered.

* * * * * * *

I awoke with a muffled scream.

The sound of barking in the distance made me sit up abruptly in my chair. A thin line of dried saliva had formed on the side of my face. I began to gasp heavily. Evander had begun to stir, fussing and hiccuping. He had been startled awake when I sat up. I stood so fast I accidentally knocked the chair over, groggy with sleep. With my hand, I grabbed the torch and rushed outside as fast as I could, cool air blowing my hair back. It extinguished the torch in my hand.

It was early morning, and daybreak had begun. I began to soothe Evander, knowing he was most likely hungry. Janice stood in the middle of the driveway, calling out to Pepper and Honey. The golden pit bull rushed up the steps, tail wagging, barking and licking my legs. Her wet snout brushed my knee.

Janice began to run forward to me, clutching her gun. She was looking at me in an odd way, but I didn't care. I was thrilled to see her, thrilled to breathe in fresh air. I continued to bounce my son in my arm as he cried and settled down on the steps, getting ready to feed him. Janice glanced up the steps, then at me. I gave her a frantic wave and began to unbutton the top of my dress, although I was shivering. I was drenched in sweat, like I had been running a marathon.

There was one thing I was sure of though—I was never sleeping again.

I breathlessly attempted to sign with my fingers, shaking my head. “We need to search this place. We need to strip it down from the top to the bottom.”

My arm was shaking so badly I nearly lost my grip on Evander as he began to nurse. But that didn’t make sense either, because at that moment, I wanted nothing but to get away from the house, from its crumbling, decaying structure. She stared at me. I tried to tell her more, but that was all I could really sign. Maybe I hadn’t seen the photograph at all. Maybe I was was just imagining things.

And then, I realized I had left my satchel inside.

Janice came a bit closer, taking a good, long look at my face. Then she placed both hands over her mouth, as in shock. I knew I looked like a mess, with dark circles under my eyes, cracked, bloody lips. But I didn't care. I needed to show her the photograph I had found in the living room. I wanted to tell her about the visions I had been having. But before I could get a word out, she spoke out first. She knelt down beside me and gently placed a warm hand on my shoulder.

"I've seen you before," she whispered. "I recognize you. How could I fail to see it before?"