Deacon Rie

26 & CHANGE

For

Chaz, Dominic and Audrey Kate

The dream of inspiration is God’s gift to the dreamer and you are the gifts which inspire me to dream.

“I don’t care if you go left. I don’t care if you go right. But dammit, you’d better go right now.”

– Sergeant Ritz

The Starting Line

Beloved tales shared by generations have touted the durability of castles built on stone. Sacred parables repeatedly lift up the wise man who builds his home upon a rock. And timeless fables teach that storms are best weathered upon a solid foundation. And so it is true that since the time of antiquity, solid ground has held a firm reputation as the venue of choice for facing hardship. As Stephen Lantz pressed the toe of his shoe into the resistance of the road’s surface, he couldn’t have disagreed more.

He hesitated. It was as if too much pressure would awaken some unseen monster beneath him. Speckled blemishes marked the jagged asphalt. It drew his attention to the apparent scarring of daily wear that had been mixed with a constant exposure to the natural elements. The battle-hardened appearance only intensified the road’s seeming brutality. Breaks of loose gravel gave a false sense of weakness, but not a hint of brokenness as the road defiantly challenged him. Stephen swallowed deeply, attempting to wash away the fluttering doubts of his own readiness.

He had made it to the marathon race location with time to spare and was now ready to begin the adventure. He tried to focus on the excitement and joy of a long awaited day’s arrival. All the training, preparation and difficulty had been building up to a single event and now he was here standing in its presence. Enthusiasm and anticipation were the appropriate words for the day’s planned festivities, but Stephen Lantz knew intimidation, anxiety, and self-doubt were also ready to quietly accompany him. Lost in momentary ponder, Stephen stared at the pothole to consider the subtle similarities between crumbled pavement and coarse sand. Perhaps the most monumental moments of a man’s life could be recognized by the ground on which he stood.

The draw of a deep breath drew in awareness that the pre-dawn air was cooler than normal for a February morning. A crescent moon held the darkness with a surrounding haze of clouds as if someone had taken an eraser to the rim of its illumination. A whipping breeze caused a shrug that made him erratically shake his shoulders and head, snapping him out of the mental drift.

He tried in vain to walk off the uncontrollable shiver that seemed to grip him tighter with each step. Feeling every gust of wind along the hair fibers of his bare legs, he questioned why he had given in to wearing shorts with only a long-sleeved shirt. He had been told on numerous occasions that these marathon races always warmed up along the way. People told him he’d be glad to be in shorts. It was humorous, the number of encouraging friends who had reminded him about rapidly changing weather conditions countless times over the prior months. He found it surprising to learn just how many of his acquaintances seemed to hobby in meteorology when it came to conversations about marathon preparation. Stephen had come to learn that letting people know you were preparing to run your first marathon was a magnet for unsolicited advice. Now he reasoned that warming up along the way wasn’t going to help much if hypothermia settled in well before reaching the first aid station.

He faintly noticed the presence of other people trickling by him in the dim light. They were huddled in their own desperate attempts to cocoon themselves from the wind. Images of frozen corpses entered his mind. They were reflections of the ill prepared and ill fortuned mountaineers in a climbing documentary he had watch last week. Dismissing the mental imagery proved to be a challenge.

You’re on a beach. You’re on a beach. Blistering sand burning my feet. Blazing sun scorching my skin… You’re on a hot, hot beach… in the summer… at the equator… ahhh, this beach sucks. Just move, Stephen.

Feelings of rust ground within his knees as he plodded over each step, making the concept of a 26.2 journey seem nearly incomprehensible. Doubt and hesitation tightened their grip. Attempting to settle the rising anxiety he drew in another deep breath but the bitter air only made him more aware of his increased heart rate. He violently shook his shoulders to knock off layers of imaginary ice and forced his mind to shift its focus toward that task of finding the area for the race start.

Stephen had expected to be better prepared for the morning. Was it those missed training runs? Perhaps he had made a mistake in the training plan and hadn’t really properly prepared after all. Or maybe, it was something deeper. Something inside which told him he had no business being here in the first place. He concealed his fears from himself and pretended it was just the cold causing him to shiver. He reassured himself that he had all the signs of a well-prepared runner. He had arrived on time and seemingly at the right location. He already picked up his race packet, which included his race number on a paper bib, some pre-race instructions, a pile of random advertisements, plus samples for oddly packaged liquids he wasn’t even sure how to go about using. He had done well to ensure there was plenty of time to get settled in before the start. Still, he felt uneasy and a flutter of anxious nausea began to swell.

He subtly looked over his shoulder one last time to see the tail lights of his family’s car rest at a stop sign. Even with the soft red glow breaking the dense mist it did little more than illuminate the rear fender. He took pride seeing the newly applied silver paint which dressed the aged car. Though not by any stretch new, it was new to them and something he believed to be worth taking care of. He knew that giving attention to the car’s exterior would motivate him to take better care of the vehicle’s maintenance. “Besides,” he had told Sarah with great determination, “a high mileage car is like taking in a rescue dog. It knows when it’s being cared for and it’ll take just as good care of you in return.” The associated enthusiasm had done more to reassure him than convince his patient wife. Stephen and Sarah knew a thing or two about making old things new again; enough to make sure the car was in the best condition possible to see them through whatever new difficulties lay ahead.

The metallic-silver sedan lingered at the stop sign. Considering his wife had extensive experience in successfully arguing with police officers at stop signs over the permissive use of the “California Roll”, he knew she was not so much adhering to the law, but instead staring at him through the slim rearview mirror.

He knew her concerns. He wasn’t the first man in his late thirty’s to get a wild hair and sign up for adventures like marathons. But Sarah knew her husband was not the impulsive type. So it wasn’t a complete shock when she had expressed in great detail, just how incredibly insane she felt he was to throw marathon training on top of a series of years filled with personal hardships. But Sarah had followed him down the path of unreason before and she promised to do everything she could to help him make it to that starting line. At the time of that conversation, he hadn’t mentioned the 5:00 am wake up which would be required in order to drop him off before dawn on race day. But Sarah excelled in her role as his crew chief all the way until the last possible moment.

Unfortunately, fretting about preparations and her own nervousness about Stephen’s attempt kept her from getting even a part night’s sleep. He now realized she had been more stressed than him about getting him to the race start. But under his own tensions, he woke up half an hour before the alarm with no hope of returning to sleep. Besides, he loved the way she smiled coyly before actually waking up completely. Serving as her alarm clock by bringing in a strong brew of steaming coffee, with a touch of cream and a triple-touch of chocolate syrup, he won back some points for the early wake-up.

Stephen faced toward the car. Resisting the punishing force of the resistant wind a soft smile broke over his face and he waved into the darkened rear window. He watched the red halo of brake lights disappear and the car slowly pressed deeper into the gray wall of morning.

Fighting onward through the frigid air which gave strength to his hesitation and nervousness, Stephen saw a large crowd standing in a series of long but well organized rows. The lines seemed to be single file as if the crowd was ready for a relay race. It looked odd and unlike the way he thought a marathon race would be structured. He gradually shuffled into a relatively short line behind a man wearing a bright yellow singlet shirt, hip-high running shorts and shoes that looked like they had been stolen from a circus clown. The shoes were unlike anything Stephen had seen before, appearing to have been made from rubber and providing spaces for each of the man’s toes. He suspected that anyone purposely dressed this way in forty degree weather had to know what he was doing; either that or Stephen was about to find himself following the village idiot.

Still not completely certain he was in the correct area; he quickly became reassured by the mass of people purposefully standing in solemn silence. They clearly had a purpose and knew what was going on. He could see no stage or any of the great fuss he had anticipated for the event. After receiving what seemed like weekly emails for three straight months from the sponsoring organization, he had assumed there would be a lot more excitement and instruction present at the start of the race. He wanted to ask the man in front of him if this was where the marathon race was being held. Giving it a second thought, he considered the guy’s shoes. The last thing he wanted to do was give this guy an open door to make a joke. As if hundreds of people in running clothes casually gathered together on near freezing mornings before 6am for any other reason. He felt confident he was in the right place and gained reassurance from the assumption that this many people standing around wouldn’t risk of missing the race start. Stephen had never been accused of being a shy guy but to begin asking questions of strangers half an hour before daybreak seemed a bit too presumptive. Furthermore, he reasoned with quite a bit of certainty that any conversation with the man in front of him would bring about an internal obligation to ask about the clown shoes. Stephen opted for silence.

It wasn’t until the line progressed and he came around the bend that Stephen realized he wasn’t standing at the starting line of a marathon race. He felt dumb and privately let out a small chuckle as he stared at his own shoes, which he now realized held the feet of a clown. Secretly embarrassed, he leaned down and pretended to double check the tie of his laces. He truly felt like a rookie. But in one sense he was correct; it was a line for a relay race. Despite his mistake, Stephen decided to maintain his position in the line and wait his turn to use one of the several blue and white port-a-potties.

Making his way to what he was certain had to be the starting line, the wind began to pick up again. Stephen clinched against the blades of a particularly strong gust and saw a much larger crowd fashioning a mob huddle in the middle of the street. Surveying the crowd, Stephen quickly assessed the range of emotions being expressed by the participants. He was well aware of how people responded differently to anxiety and the current environment was no exception. The pre-race jitters he had heard so much about were clearly evident among the groups of the runners which seemed to organically form around him. While some fought the frigid air with the stilled poise of an ancient statue, other people bounced up and down, not quite sure whether they were shaking off the cold or trying to get a look at the starting line a couple hundred feet ahead. Many in the crowd bent their back and head to-and-fro to perform some awkward and certainly ill-advised stretch that was sure to result in a new car for their chiropractor. The array of outstretched and gyrating necks created a never ending sea of bobble-head dolls. Several runners stood in place, stretching their arms and legs, while a few sprawled out across the concrete as though they were about to engage in an Olympic speed trial. There were several who looked like they had been too worried about missing an alarm clock and consequently spent the entire night waking every twenty minutes until it was finally time to leave for the race. These sleep-deprived runners shuffled around like the undead in short misguided steps as if aimlessly looking for some predetermined starting marker among the sea of bodies.

There was a constant buzz from the crowd. Stephen couldn’t figure out if it was the energy of the crowd or a band of bright-eyed, energetic talkers who clearly had no intention of pausing their gossip session for something as trivial as a marathon. Stephen immediately noted that this small and self-absorbed group had extensive training in the sport of endurance-gabbing; their already increasing rate suggested the chatter was bound to intensify over the next several hours. Though he was pretty sure criminal aggression conducted for the civil purpose of eliminating a “chatty-Kathy” during a marathon event was a satisfactory legal defense, he had come here for other purposes. Stephen made a mental note to try to avoid the group and casually made his way towards a concentration of caffeine-deprived zombies where he could be alone with his doubts.

Not wanting to stand out and having convinced himself that of the ten thousand people running on this blistering morning he could not possibly be the only first-timer, Stephen reluctantly joined the bobble-head dance. He found it did absolutely nothing to ease the weather’s persistent discomfort and on the third stretch he was almost certain that he had twisted something of vital importance.

He saw the yellow-shirted man with the clown shoes again. This time the man was positioning himself among a dozen others; many also in yellow singlet shirts. They leaned in to pose for a picture when Stephen noticed their minimalist clothing, several also wore gloves. Stephen stared for a moment just trying to get his mind around the idea of dying of frostbite but having warm fingers. The group was a mix of ages but seemed to mostly know each other. Clearly, the entry ticket for this club was the right blend of yellow shirt and flat out lunacy. Continuing his stare, Stephen saw that several of their shirts had the word “Maniac” written on the back.

“Yeah,” he reasoned under his breath, “now that makes sense.”

Stephen bent forward to stretch his back and adjusted the flimsy race bib he had pinned to his shorts earlier that morning. Looking around he realized that pretty much everyone else wore their bib on their chest. Feeling insecure and convinced that the crowd knew something he didn’t; he gave in to unannounced peer pressure and began the process of relocating the bib from his leg to his chest. He fumbled his half-frozen fingers together and squeezed the safety pin. The unresponsive fingers lost their nimble grip and popped the exposed pin directly into the flesh of his thigh. For the first time since he had arrived, feeling came back into his leg, regrettably in a less than desirable fashion. Undaunted and unlearned, Stephen attempted the exact same repositioning with the second safety pin with surprisingly, the exact same result.

“Hello. Yes, Mrs. Lantz? This is the race director. Yes, your husband would have finished the marathon today had he not stabbed himself fifty times before the race with an unsterile safety pin. Instead of completing the run, the loss of blood combined with an adrenaline-induced spread of gangrene caused him to drop dead at mile ten.”

With two pin pricks, shaking fingers and absolutely zero progress, Stephen subtly rubbed the tiny pin holes in his leg. He replaced the safety pin back where it started and confidently rose as if nothing had occurred. The word “rookie” slipped out under his breath.

“You know I’m already proud of you.” The man’s somber voice came from Stephen’s right only a few feet behind him.

“No kidding! In thirty years have you ever seen me get up this early on a Saturday?” Stephen looked back to see the bright youthful smile of a lady speaking with a gray-bearded man and weathered eyes. She wore a flimsy pink jacket with black tights and a neon green band around her head which covered her ears. Stephen noted that she was also wearing thin gloves. The maniacs may have been onto something after all. Although it wouldn’t have taken a tremendous amount of foresight to figure out that gloves would have been helpful. He was already regretting not taking that golden nugget of wisdom among the mountain of race advice which had been shoveled at him.

Stephen didn’t think the smiling lady was the typical runner someone would expect to get up early on a weekend and take in a marathon. She appeared to be healthy but only because she wore the extra weight well. Though attractive in her youth, her beauty was somewhat concealed by the lack of tightness in her skin. Stephen suspected she may have been someone who recently lost a significant amount of weight and perhaps the marathon was the capstone adventure to a recent lifestyle change. Nevertheless, her beauty emerged from a joyful glimmer, radiating from her calming blue eyes and a contagious smile which even the anticipation of a full marathon couldn’t hinder.

“You know what I mean.” the man sweetly continued on. Somewhere in his late fifty’s or early-sixties, he wore a thick but faded red and off-white plaid jacket, worn out blue jeans and rugged brown boots with scuffed tips that spoke proudly to the years of a healthy work ethic. “I just want you to know how special you are.” The man’s words rode a slow Southern drawl. “Just want you to know how much you mean to me- to all of us. We’ll look for you on the course but don’t you feel like you gotta be looking for us. You just be careful and you go about doin’ what you need to do. But don’t you feel like you have to run fast. I mean you… you just ain’t gotta prove nothin’ to no one out there today. You just do your best and be careful and don’t you worry about a thing while you’re out there.”

“Daddy…” The young lady tried to interrupt.

He continued on, unfazed. “You just listen to your body and if something ain’t feelin’ just right you don’t go on pushing it or trying to prove anything. You just be careful and you make sure you drink water and you do all the things you know along the way.”

She made another attempt. “Daddy…”, but it was as if she hadn’t spoken at all.

“If anything goes wrong you just tell someone and we’ll be there. And we’ll be there and we’ll be doin’ whatever needs to be done. We’ll take care of making things right as rain. I just want you to know how special you are to us. And just you don’t worry about anything cause we’ll be just as proud of you.”

“Alright, Daddy,” she firmly ended her father’s speech. “Now you’re just repeating yourself.”

“Oh. Sorry about that. I just…” The man gently fumbled his words.

“It’s okay. Please stop worrying. I feel good. It’s going to be a great day and I know I can do this. I’ll be careful and smart but what I need you to understand is that I am going to do this and it’s going to be alright.” The young lady gave her father a sweet but sassy head tilt. “Daddy, do you hear me? Everything is going to be alright.”

“Okay, I know. I’m sorry.” He compassionately leaned his head to mirror hers. “Maybe… it’s just that this is a long time for you to be out there on your own and I don’t want you doin’ anything dangerous out of feeling like you gotta prove something.”

“I know, Daddy. It’s not like I’ll be alone. Look at all these people out here!” She extended her arms as if to introduce him to the sea of bobble heads stretching their limbs around her.

“I know you’re not alone. I just wish you weren’t running by yourself.” His jaw clenched and Stephen watched as the man’s face drifted from concern and dipped into a deep sadness. The young lady’s smile curved into a conflicted grin as she looked up at her father with gentleness. She reached out and touched his forearm. The lively dialogue had come to an abrupt halt. They looked into each other’s eyes and continued their conversation in silence.

Watching the man’s countenance change under the gentle caress, Stephen found himself struggling to hold his composure. It was the look a father gets when the most precious treasure he has ever held begins to pull away and he knows there is no choice but to let her go. Regrettably, it was a look Stephen knew well and it brought a familiar pit back to his stomach. Though it seemed a bit more drama than one would expect before a marathon, Stephen had learned long before that there were no limits to the emotional peaks and valleys which could come from a daughter’s touch. It was true; the gentle caress of a daughter’s hand in those tender moments could take a parent back to the hospital room where they counted each of those tiny fingers for the first time. Stephen related to the girl’s father and the difficulty he felt trying to accept her dismissal of parental hyper-concern.

The father murmured after a minute, clearly struggling to hold it together as his little girl grasped his hands together. “We’re all proud of you. Every one of us. Every…” His voice broke and the man’s lips pressed together as if they were a dam threatening to crumble behind the weight of long-held emotions.

“Daddy, it’s alright. I love you.” She embraced him with a warmth that removed all hint of the morning’s chill. She pulled away and began stepping backwards into the crowd. Her face erupted into a big smile and she thrust her fists into the air as she called out to her father. “Don’t worry. I’m going to be great today!”

“You’re already great.” He lurched up and yelled above the heads, blowing her a kiss before quickly turning to make his exit through the crowd and up to the curb. With the young lady still looking in her father’s direction, Stephen saw the sleeve of her father’s thick plaid jacket rise above the crowd and thrust an exaggerated thumbs up.

Feeling the pit begin to settle, Stephen appreciated how the warmth of their conversation had distracted his own mind from the constant cut of the raw breeze. The young lady turned away and began rolling her neck like the other bobble heads as she made her way to an open area next to Stephen.

She caught Stephen’s eyes and gave an introductory, “Hello.”

“Good morning,” Stephen said with an awareness that proximity had made him an unintentional but obvious eavesdropper to her sweet conversation moments before. Stephen decided to open the door for conversation with a friendly smile. “Sounds like your dad has the pre-race jitters.”

“Yeah. I think he’s more stressed about this race than I am.” Her voice was pleasant and encouraging. “You’d think he was the one lining up in this crowd!”

Stephen thought of all the unsolicited advice he had received leading up to the marathon and how annoying it was when someone began a conversation with questions about whether this would be his first marathon. It seemed like such a dumb line of questioning. Of course this was his first marathon. He tried to imagine what sane person would do this more than once? Stephen tried to think of something less intrusive to discuss, if for no other reason than to distract from his earlier faux pas of failing to disguise his eavesdropping.

“He seems very supportive. And encouraging. It’s good to have caring people like that cheering for you.”

“Yeah. It’s cool.” she responded with a friendly smile and flipped her leg backwards into an open palm to stretch a quad muscle.

Maybe it was the arctic sensation. Perhaps it was just too early in the morning. Regardless, Stephen‘s innocent politeness began pouring out and it was simply too late to stop the rookie train from leaving the station. “So, is this your first marathon?” His face flushed unnoticeably in the cold.

The lady looked up at Stephen. “Yeah. I just started running a few months ago. My sister, Amy, got me hooked up with this crazy thing.” The young lady looked off to the side as if to sarcastically stare down an invisible third party to the conversation. “Actually, she signed me up for this torture and then she told me about it.”

“Wow, that’s one way to get someone on board!” Stephen chuckled.

“I’m Carrie, by the way,” she replied while extending her hand.

Meeting her hand, he responded, “Stephen.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Stephen. So, what about you? Ever done one of these before?”

“No. This is my first. I’m actually somewhat shocked it’s not blatantly obvious. I feel like I’m standing out like the sore thumb in this crowd.”

“Oh no, it’s obvious. I’m just trying to be polite!” Carrie responded with a cheeky laugh. “I’m kidding, of course. I get the feeling there are more of us sore thumbs out here than other fingers.”

“That’s encouraging; I think. Thanks for the boost in confidence.” Stephen did start to feel a little more comfortable in his discomfort.

“Oh, you’ll want to take confidence from someone else besides me. You know, like one of these people around here who call themselves runners. I’m so nervous. I’ve gone to the bathroom like eight times already this morning.”

Stephen’s chuckle was accompanied by a release of anxiousness and it came out louder than he intended. “But you’re here, right? That’s got to count for a lot.”

“Seriously,” Carrie stiffened into an over exaggerated resemblance of a Queen’s Guard at Buckingham Palace. Her neck tilted and her eyes rolled to peer into Stephen’s, “I may very well die out here.”

“Well, at least you made it this far.”

Letting go of the drama performance, Carrie responded more lightheartedly, “Oh, I’m finishing. There’s no doubt about that. I may just die afterwards but I tell you, I am running this thing. And if I can’t run, I’ll walk. If that doesn’t work, I’ll crawl. Heck, you may even see me rolling before too long. But by golly, I am absolutely finishing this thing.”

Stephen loved her playful confidence and in between his laughter he continued, “So your sister signed you up and she’s not running with you. How does that work?”

“Well, she has a pretty good excuse, I suppose. She was always the fit one. Miss Health Nut who’s was married to her juicer since she was a teenager. Pureed vegetables were never my thing though. I’m more of a dairy-gal. As in like, the cookies-n-cream type of dairy!” Carrie smiled naughtily at the thought of her guilty pleasure. She had an infectious smile and with the mention of her sister came a tenderness which told Stephen that she and Amy had a special relationship.

“She convinced me to go on a jog with her one afternoon, which was more of a ‘walk with heavy breathin’ for me, by the way. So, while we’re out there she tells me she just signed us up for a marathon. Just like that. Like she had just made me breakfast or picked up my laundry. You know, like, ‘Hey there, that’s a cool shirt you’re wearing. Oh, by the way, you’re running a marathon.’”

Stephen wasn’t sure if this sarcasm was meant to be funny, but Carrie was cracking him up and he welcomed the opportunity to laugh in light of the grueling task ahead of him.

She continued, “But you know, last year I started exercising and changing what I ate. I gave up ice cream.” Carrie’s voice dropped an octave as she revealed her displeasure about that particular element of her life change, “And after a while, I got to running. Of course, lots of running.” Carrie emphasized the comment with a dramatic head swing. “Oh Lord, so much running.” Her feigned torture was worthy of comic’s stand up routine. “But you know what? The next thing you know, here I am. 75 pounds lighter, wearing tights and wasting perfectly good dream time!”

“75 pounds? Really?!?” Stephen wanted to be encouraging but was genuinely impressed.

“I know; right! That’s like kicking a hobbit off your back!”

“That’s awesome.” Stephen thought about the time he had successfully lost 10 pounds and was genuinely impressed. “Sounds like you had a pretty memorable year.”

“Yeah. You could say that.” Carrie seemed to drift off into her own thoughts and Stephen took it as his queue to continue stretching.

Feeling the awkwardness of standing next to someone with nothing to do but watch the lull of the conversation drift into the air Stephen broke the silence, “So, is your sister meeting you somewhere to cheer you on?”

Carrie continued looking at the bobbing heads in front of them. “Oh yeah. She’s cheering me on alright. She darn well better be or I’m gonna kick that skinny little rear of hers.” Stephen saw Carrie’s demeanor change as her eyes began to drift above the sea of bodies like she was expecting to see someone. She shook her shoulders as if knocking off a sheet of ice and asked Stephen, “Alright- your turn. So, who twisted your arm to get you here on a perfectly good day for bagels in bed?”

Was it the challenge? A test? Therapy? A desire to see if he could persevere; do something big from start to finish? After everything he had come through, did Stephen really have anything to prove to anyone? And if he did, could a running twenty six miles actually prove anything of value? It could, he decided; to himself at least. He needed to know he was strong enough to follow through and finish the challenge he had begun. He needed to prove that to himself. This motivation for showing up to the starting line revealed more insecurity and indecision than he felt comfortable sharing with a quasi-stranger. Instead, he summarized his explanation with, “A friend mentioned it and, I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Carrie politely chuckled, “Yeah, I suppose there are worse reasons for lining up and freezing your behind off with a few thousand other people in the wee hours before the crack of dawn.”

Stephen thought about how some things really did seem to be without purpose at times. More than once he had questioned whether or not running this race actually held any purpose for him or anyone else. “I think maybe it’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time but never really got around to doing it.”

“Kinda like a bucket-list thing?”

“More like a challenge to myself. I’ve thought about doing this a few times before but life had other plans, I guess.”

Carrie twisted her back in some sort of cross between a stretch and a bounce and said, “It’s amazing how somehow life just always seems to get in the way just at the wrong time. There’s just always something. But I think sometimes you just have to show up anyways.”

“Yep, I think you’re right about that. Sometimes we just have to show up anyways,” he repeated. As their conversation blended into silence, Carrie’s words lingered in his ears. Nerves tingled from the anxiety of the upcoming run and the prolonged wait was punishing.

Hurry up and wait. After all this time, you’re still hurrying up to wait.

The present situation was not too unlike the Army’s unofficial motto about hurrying up to wait. The awareness resurrected a memory of his waiting with sensitive nerves. He looked at the people in front of him and saw the bodies of the other runners bounce and wiggle with attempts to stay warm in the crisp of the cold dark morning. It unconsciously bothered him to see the loose formation and the undisciplined lack of bearing as the crowd moved around without an apparent purpose. Stephen scanned the crowd and recalled the memory of his first military deployment. In his mind, he began to see the forward-facing bodies of the runners reorganized in proper rows and columns of a military formation. Their heads were stilled and all eyes were locked to the front. Hundreds of uniformed soldiers stood in formation awaiting final instructions to board their designated ‘herky-bird,” the C-130 transports which had gathered on the tarmac in preparation for taking his unit overseas.

Mile 1

A solid fist thumped hard against Staff Sergeant Stephen Lantz’ right shoulder. The unexpected jolt yanked his attention and nearly knocked him off balance and out of formation.

“Relax, Lantz. You’re going to pop a bra-strap.” Sergeant First Class Royce Mayweather, Stephen’s platoon sergeant always had a way with words. Stephen often considered it to be a misguided way, compounded by the fact that words were never in short supply around Mayweather. Spending much of his active duty time with the Fifth Ranger Battalion had honed a naturally quick wit and earned the man an advanced degree in sarcasm.

It is common knowledge that service members make significant personal accommodations for their families while their country prepares for war. For Royce Mayweather, accommodations were complicated. So he routinely left them out of the equation when volunteering for assignments which offered a taste of adventure. The fact that adventure often required unaccompanied duty was a consequence Mayweather often neglected to consider. He had passion for the military life. Passion for the Army. Passion for the training. A genuine passion for the intensity of a combat theater. But the man also loved his wife and he was determined not to repeat the mistakes of his own father. The man who’s life in a prolonged Naval special forces career was as much a mystery to young Royce as was his death.

After a dozen years, the small print on the sign up form for Army adventure began to reveal itself and the heavy toll on his marriage reached a breaking point. When Mayweather’s wife decided she could no longer be married to both the Army and her husband, she laid out all the cards and told him to make the call. Thankfully, by providing a taste of the life he loved, switching over to the Army National Guard became a compromise which allowed him to stay attached to the military while keeping Mayweather married. More importantly, it kept him sane. And here he was again, leading another platoon on their path to Army adventure. Stephen knew Mayweather’s wife was grieved over the anticipation of another deployment. There was little doubt she regretting having ever approved the “hardly-ever-deploys” National Guard, as it was known before the September 11th terrorist attacks. But approve she did and to Mayweather it was like having a hall pass on exam day.

Now, at o’dark-thirty, with hundreds of soldiers readying on a freezing tundra someone dared to call a tarmac, Mayweather was having way too much fun for Stephen’s taste. Rolling his shoulder to work out the sore spot from Mayweather’s wake up call, Stephen seethed at how completely off guard his platoon sergeant had caught him. Though the real pain came from the fact that Mayweather had left before Stephen could deliver a sharp quip without making it obvious he was breaking ranks. That was alright, there would be other opportunities. Ranger or not, the man had to sleep at some point. Thankfully, Stephen was patient and had already plotted a suitable response for his longtime but antagonistic friend.

Stephen looked down his row with a gradual but not overly obvious tilt of his head to see his men; his duty, his responsibility. Immediately to his left, Jonesey looked nervous. Stephen knew it wasn’t something he needed to address immediately. Once they were boarded on the planes to the pre-deployment training station, an abundance of harsh ribbing by Corporal Ambrose would give Jonesey the boost of confidence he needed. Leonard “Jonesey” Jones and Duncan Ambrose grew up across the street from one another and had been close friends since elementary school. They were a couple of high school baseball stars who did everything together. Both stemming from proud patriotic families, it was no great surprise to either family when a couple of weeks before graduation, Leo and Dunc simultaneously told their families of their intention to enlist in the Army. It was a race to the phone as excited mothers hurriedly rushed to call each other, causing phones to ring busy at each house. Their fathers, having seen similar phone exchanges take place over the years, stepped out onto their respective front porches and greeted each other with a reassuring nod and proud wave.

Stephen had first been concerned about the tight bond Jonesey and Ambrose shared. But in time, it became apparent that they embraced the other squad members as part of their inner circle. Ironically, the only fist fight Stephen ever had to break up within the squad was between these two best friends. To which they responded, “Sarge, what’s up? We’re just working things out.” It was a head-scratching moment for Stephen, but instinct told him to trust the years behind their relationship. He later had to suggest to his platoon leader that the two black eyes within their ranks should be ignored, unless the lieutenant had the patience for Stephen to access his severely underdeveloped creative mind in order to make up a story which would fit the scenario. Graciously, the lieutenant complied.

Private First Class Michael Hilton caught his glance from the peripheral and locked eyes with Stephen. Hilton’s lips pursed into his chiseled locked jaw. He gave Stephen a single head nod delivered on a platter of refined, steel nerves. His eyes declared, “Ready to go, Sergeant.” Stephen read Hilton’s silent affirmation loud and clear, drawing his own strength from it before responding with his own slower nod of affirmation. Standing over six feet tall, with a chest that was easily mistaken for body armor and biceps that declared his masculinity from a mile away, Hilton was a midnight version of Italian romance novel poster boy, Fabio Lanzoni; minus the wavy golden locks of hair. Stephen knew the gentle giant well enough to understand that the muscle-head impression was little more than disciplined habit formed under a father who passed along genes of solid granite and a passion for body building. Despite the man’s brawn and impressive physique, the men of his platoon knew that Hilton would bring an entire military convoy to a complete halt if he spotted an injured dog on the side of the road.

Hilton could easily be one of the most intimidating men in the company if it weren’t for his very public passion for poetry. He was never disrespected; the sheer girth of the man did well to solidify his status among peers. But bench pressing 400lbs and then quoting romanticism by the English poet, William Blake, had a way of throwing people for a curve. Stephen reasoned that Hilton liked to keep people guessing and promoted his persona as a living paradox. Like the time he had let Hilton plan the music for the family bar-b-que being sponsored by the platoon. Most people had no idea who Il Volo was, much less what the Italian operatic trio was singing about. Stephen laughed so hard he had actually brought tears to his eyes while watching anyone who built up enough courage to proactively request a change of music only needed to take one look at the strained seams of Hilton’s shirt before promptly becoming an appreciator, if not an unwilling fan. But the look in Hilton’s eyes now gave Stephen a boost in confidence. He knew Hilton’s muscles would be well used in their contribution to the war in Iraq they were departing for. The more he thought about it, the more he reasoned Hilton’s poetry could come in handy as well.

2nd Lieutenant Scott Bradley, their platoon leader, echoed out another command along with a side comment for motivating emphasis. Stephen’s response was tempered somewhat by the knowledge that after the hours of waiting and redundant safety briefings, they were about to load onto a C-130 cargo plane and then wait again while flight checklists and equipment validations were conducted. Nevertheless, young and full of fire men were motivated by the idea of “flying over there and kicking their ass”, as the lieutenant so graciously phrased it. Loudest among the voices in his squad was Corporal Darnell Waters. Young and energetic, Waters wore a gritty shell that Stephen knew to be little more than a tough guy front put on to hide the internal panic that nearly overcame him whenever the burden of responsibility was placed on his shoulders. Stephen was patient with his over eagerness and while he knew a time to push Waters would one day come, for the moment he remained content to let the young man grow at his own pace.

Stephen cast a glance over each of the other squad mates. Hooper’s profile looked like it had designed with a protractor. The man’s thin cheekbones sharply gave way to his ski-slopped nose and finished demonstrative chin. Hooper looked like a French chef cartoon character. But the guy couldn’t cook Ramen Noodles with an already boiling pot of water and the other men loved to let him know it on a regular basis.

Rodriguez had been a standout Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps cadet. Though very capable, he had opted out of college and the officer route because he wanted to spend more time pulling the trigger than figuring out what people should be shooting at. Stephen knew Rodriguez had too much potential and despite the man’s best intentions, he would be a non-commissioned officer one day.

Asha easily beat Hooper as the most awkward looking man in the squad. He was just over six and a half feet tall, couldn’t stand straight to save his life and had an overly extended neck that made you think he had been rescued from some medieval stretching device. Asha had the physical appearance of a giraffe on muscle relaxers but a more focused and precise mind, Stephen had never seen.

Tomilson, the corporal from Chicago who claimed to have single-handedly popularized the phrase “Chi-Town” had a knack for being able to describe any scenario with a hockey analogy. While he missed his hometown, the opportunity to avoid the winds coming off the Great Lakes during January and February kept him content to live in a place where he could watch news of the latest blizzard from the comfort of his recliner, while wearing shorts.

Chelphalvanova was simply referred to as Chelp by the rest of the squad, platoon, company as well as any person who ever met him whose first language wasn’t Slavic. He had been a football all-American in high school when he was a dominant defensive lineman. Heavily recruited by colleges across the nation, Chelp turned down multiple scholarship offers after taking personal offense to watching the World Trade Center buildings fall.

Romero had a quiet peace about him at all times. He was a family man like Stephen and known to be somewhat of an old soul. His wisdom was often a help to Stephen, particularly when he was trying to navigate the sensitive personalities of Waters and the platoon’s self-proclaimed entertainer, Belvis.

Belvis was the pastry-loving, one-man variety show of the group. While continually entertaining, Belvis was the guy who would barely pass each physical training test and always subjected to height and weight measurements to ensure he met the standards. In a spell of Army wisdom, it was always Belvis with his bulging waistline along with Hilton and his thunderous chest that exceeded the military’s body mass standards and were forced to undergo the “tape test” routine after each physical checkup. The two of them standing side by side without shirts would often result in Belvis turning into a standup comedian has he mocked Hilton’s sculpted chassis for apparently being undesirable by Uncle Sam.

Each of the men in Stephen’s squad stood with an appreciation and acceptance of the task ahead. They understood the responsibility for the uniforms they wore and it meant something to each one of them. Activation of their Guard unit had come as no surprise to any of them. Economist often cited the influence of the United States, saying that if America sneezes, the rest of the world catches a cold. If that was true of economics, how much more would the world feel American influence after the September 11th attacks on home soil? From the moment news of the attack broke, Stephen knew deployment was inevitable. America was looking for a fight and Stephen’s squad, like so many others, was more than happy to be sent into the ring.

The squad was strong and well trained to do their jobs. Proud as he was, Stephen’s heart skipped a beat as he thought about the responsibility he held by being first in his row; the position of squad leader taking his men into their first combat theater. Steady and confident, Stephen sheltered any hint of the overwhelming fear that trembled his core. Part of his job was to inspire a sense of loyalty; some would even call it a blind loyalty. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for that. Leading this squad, facing combat, the possibility of injury to his men, or even fallen soldiers; the chaos associated with each potential scenario laid upon his shoulders was nearly too much of a burden for him to bear.

Having served with many people in the Guard platoon for the better part of two years, he knew the strengths and weaknesses of his men. In large part, they were precisely what one would expect of cavalry soldiers; physically strong and mentally ready. Recent years had made everyone more focused. And while there was no question that war would make brethren out of strangers, to Stephen, these men were already his brothers. Their training had intensified as the welcome announcement of a deployment date became a reality. He had told the squad several times that if called to combat, he would be proud to line up next to them. Stephen had said it confidently each time, but in his heart he never quite knew what he would feel if they found themselves in that moment. Now, as Stephen stood at attention ready to lead them onto a plane bound for war, he understood exactly how he felt. He felt absolutely terrified that a mistake by him could jeopardize the safety of one of his men. The fear was not entirely unexpected but at that moment the dread was far more worrisome than he had ever anticipated.

Lieutenant Bradley completed his final orders and it was time to board their designated plane for their journey to a readiness base. There they would spend six weeks for preparedness training before claiming a new piece of desert real estate as home. The men in the front rows leaned down and grabbed their gear. Stephen bent over to hoist his own and his squad followed suit. As the rows before him began to part for their assigned transports, Stephen held his ground. In deference to the man they followed and trusted, his men stood fast as the squads behind them moved forward and walked between them, breaking their ranks. Hooper leaned forward and caught Stephen’s eye.

A different fear gripped Stephen and held him in place. Like so many service members before him, it was less the fear of what lay ahead and more the fear of what remained behind. Playing it off like he was courteously allowing others to progress ahead of his own squad he validated Hooper’s inquiry as if he had been waiting for the fire-team leader to give that signal. Stephen addressed the entire squad and called out, “Alright, you heard the lieutenant. We’ve got an all-expense paid trip to the desert. Let’s move!”

“Hooah! Let’s go boys.” Hooper chimed out with an anxious breath he had been holding too long. “And Asha, don’t drag ass. I’m gonna be pissed if you make me miss the in-flight movie.”

Belvis, never one to miss out on a chance to launch a joke at a squad mate’s expense, hollered ahead, “Why the rush, Hooper? They showing Lilo and Stitch?”

“Don’t knock my little blue man, Belvis.” Hooper had his gear over his shoulder and called back to anyone who could hear his bellowing. “Stitch is one high-speed, low-drag hardcore ball of destruction, inflicting havoc and chaos on anything and anyone in his path. Just like me.”

Tomlison, catching up hollered ahead, “Yeah, he’s like you alright. Just like you… if you’re in the kitchen.” The squad let out a collective teasing response, submitting Hooper to relive one of his multiple famed culinary mishaps.

Hooper’s ego bubble burst, “Ahh- come on, really? You gonna bring that up? That was one time.”

The men moved toward their designated transport and the banter continued as they made their way onto the plane. Stephen knew the harassment would stretch on for the duration of the flight. He readjusted his over-weighted rucksack to fit squarely upon his shoulders and clenched his duffel bag. He straightened his back and prepared to step forward but instead he hesitated, resting the duffel and breaking a promise to himself. He turned to the rear and peered into the brightly lit hanger. Behind the makeshift rope line he saw the breaking hearts of loved ones. Some waved in an effort to absorb every last moment. Several stood in silence, while others shed tears to an unknown future.

Despite the distance, Stephen found her immediately. Sarah stood in place bouncing what was now a fully awake and fully cranky toddler who insisted on squirming out from under the protection of the yellow fleece blanket. The long morning had undoubtedly caught up with Hailey and a defiant arm flung out from beneath the blanket. She had done as well as a two year old could be expected for a having being woken so early to endure long and uneventful hours under the moderate shelter of the Air Force hanger. Keeping his face locked in the stern gaze of a soldier’s discipline, he watched as his heart reached beyond the distance to embrace them. He argued with himself for not going back and spending one more moment gazing into Sarah’s hazel eyes or placing one more tender kiss on the brim of Hailey’s soft blonde hairline. How could he leave them?

Stephen’s parents, Tom and Rebecca, stood closely behind his wife. Tom looked through the crowd in an attempt to find his son. Stephen knew that his father’s vision had diminished significantly since his stroke and anything beyond twenty yards was a pure apparition. Regardless, Tom intensely searched the sea of camouflage among the dim, gray hour of the morning.

Rebecca, being the ever-helpful mother-in-law, reached over to Sarah and helped pull the blanket back over the protesting toddler. Rebecca had said goodbye to her only son and was now focused on supporting his family the best she could. His mother’s words had been sweet, sincere and uplifting. She said nothing about taking on additional duties while still serving as the primary caregiver for Tom. His mother was now a woman who lived with purpose and always expected the best of even the worst situations. She stood firm and resolute, a strength Stephen knew would be needed for the wife and daughter he was leaving behind. Rebecca noticed that her husband’s unbuttoned overcoat had fallen and was sliding down his large shoulder as he peered into the crowd. Gently getting his attention, she pulled the jacket back over her husband’s shoulder. She turned and said something to Sarah while placing an arm around the young mother.

Sarah shifted Hailey over her shoulder and into Rebecca’s arms. In the return glance, she immediately caught sight of her soldier and Stephen could see her eyes brighten as they met his. His last embrace with them had occurred around 3:45 am and somehow three hours spent in the bone-chilling cold air, supplied with the regular gust of thirty mile per hour winds coming off the flat terrain of the runway only made Sarah more beautiful. Her smile captured him, and for one single moment he was the only man standing out on that open field. He gave himself a full second to enjoy the moment and preserve his mind’s picture.

Stephen’s reasons for joining the National Guard had been affirmed many times. Experience, adventure, income; they had all been enhanced by his enlistment. Though he held only minor reservations for the dangerous road of combat which lay ahead, in that moment he would give up every advantage enlistment brought them if he could just stay with his wife and daughter. He felt an almost physical longing as his heart burned and sank deeper into his chest.

Sarah gave him a sweetly pronounced smile, then a wave and a kiss blown across the chilled paved landscape. She wiped her glistening eyes and continued waving as if she feared he would have to leave the moment she stopped. Stephen smiled and lifted his duffel bag over his shoulder so he could raise both hands to his mouth and return a set of kisses; one for Sarah, one for Hailey. As the leader of a cavalry scout squad in an infantry platoon, he had received training on several scenarios pertaining to desert and urban warfare: how to avoid fire, how to use cover and concealment, how to move to his squad in response to contact. He had been trained well on how to run into enemy territory. But no one had trained him for how to walk away from home.

Stephen committed every ounce of strength within him to the task of turning away. He began the walk towards his men who were already boarding their plane. Moving past the perimeter of the hanger Stephen scanned the crowd one final time and saw at the far end of the hanger an elderly man in a sleek black windbreaker standing separate from the longing families. With years of hard living evidenced in the stiffness of his glare, Stephen recognized the man as Corporal Waters’ grandfather; a Vietnam veteran whom Stephen had earlier watched give Waters a firm lecture on the conduct and purpose of the soldier. Having long since learned when to shut up and listen, Waters had stood there in silence taking in every word of the early morning lecture that the grandfather had clearly delivered multiple times before. His only comment had been periodic nods and a series of appropriately timed responses consisting of two words, “Yes, sir.”

Darnell Waters wasn’t the most disciplined of the squad. Perhaps it had something to do with never having known his own father and having a mother who could not commit to a job, much less a child. Out of necessity he had been raised under the strict guidance of his already aged grandparents. Growing up hearing the pessimistic voice of his periodically present mother, Waters inherently looked for opportunities to avoid responsibility. However, with a grandfather who was not one for mincing words or accepting excuses, when he did his work, Waters was deeply driven and effective. Waters had struggled with school but seeing the chiseled nature of his grandfather, Stephen understood why the young man had no choice but to graduate high school and do something productive with his life. Delivering structure and guidance, the Army had been the perfect transition for Waters. Now that the country was calling volunteers to make good on their commitments, his grandfather had made it a point to ensure the boy knew what was expected of him.

Stephen watched the grandfather standing at attention, observing the soldiers as they approached their assigned transports. The falling temperatures had no impact on the man and no attention was given to the jacket’s zipper flap relentlessly tapping the side of his face in the wicked wind. Just as the last few men began boarding the closest plane, a single, sharp, proud motion by elderly man brought his worn and weathered hand up into a crisp salute. Corporal Waters was well aware that he had a duty to this patriot who had sacrificed so much for his beloved country. Stephen knew that duty did not belong solely to Waters. It was their duty to burden together and while each step on the tarmac felt like trudging through a sandy beach in the middle of a thunderstorm, that duty was the one thing stronger than Stephen’s desire to stay with his family. Stephen picked up his pace as he watched Waters’ grandfather firmly maintain his salute. The man was steadfast, diligent and firm; giving no regard to the stream of tears descending down the crevices of his dark rugged cheeks.

“Stephen? Stephen?” Carrie’s voice startled him from the memory as he saw the waves of runners before him advancing forward.

“Yeah, sorry. Lost in the moment, I guess.” Stephen quickly replied.

“Hey, I was just saying good luck out there today and it was nice meeting you.”

“Yeah, you too.” Stephen said with a deep breath as a gust of the morning chill caught him again. “You take care of yourself and don’t let your sister skip out on you next time.”

“Oh, yeah. No doubt, she owes me for this. Maybe not right away but I can assure you we will certainly be running together at some point.” Carrie gave an awkward smile to Stephen and the general buzz of the shuffling crowd began to give way to a growing roar of applause as they shuffled closer and closer towards the direction of the starting line. Apparently, the race had already started because in a matter of seconds the crowd separated Stephen from Carrie and he lost view of her. People pressed against one another and within a minute of forward progress being initiated, the entire mass swept in a singular direction. Stephen could no more resist the crowd’s movement than he could hold back the breaking waves pressing against idle sand.

The more they progressed, the more the intentional mob grew with excitement. The bobble heads were now in full bounce mode, springing repeatedly for a chance to see anything ahead of them. The caffeine deprived zombies even opened their eyes and realized they were about to go on a multi-hour long run. From the look on their faces, Stephen surmised this to be a fresh revelation for several of them. He heard a high-pitched garble of words rapidly being tossed in all directions and quickly identified the earlier gossip group. They were still going at it and the growing excitement only accelerated their pace of speech. Stephen was pretty sure their lips would catch on fire or spontaneously explode at some point in the race. He purposely slowed to allow several people to pass him and build distance between him and the talkers.

Somewhere among the growing chaos was a man with a microphone. Stephen couldn’t see him but his presence was undeniable. The overly excited and jaggedly high-pitched voice emerged and jolted out like trebuchets raining boulders upon the disinterested crowd. But the real sin was the exuberant lift in his voice which advertised his personal excitement with having been designated the official voice of today’s marathon. Stephen thought this guy was a little too happy to be on the loudspeaker. He reasoned it was more likely that the man was an imposter while the actual official announcer, a person whose vocal control was professionally honed to deliver calm and soothing encouragement, lay unconscious under a table somewhere with a nasty bump on his head. Stephen gave a private chuckle to the story developing in his mind. It wasn’t Shakespearean but it passed the time as the wave of agitated bodies pressed forward and stopped; an irritating progression which continued for a good five minutes. He looked up and saw he was passing the starting line. It was an anticlimactic beginning which grew into a momentary disappointment as Stephen realized that he had been so far back in line that he hadn’t even heard the horn blast which announced the start of the race. He drifted into the sluggish pace of the forward shuffle, mindlessly giving control to the crowd’s irresistible pull onto the official race course.

Mile 2

The concept of running a marathon really had seemed like a good idea at the time Stephen signed up. Yet, less than two miles into the race he found himself questioning his own judgment. An elbow flung into his shoulder by an extremely tall and flamboyant runner who already seemed to have been transported into another scene by the music piping through his headphones. Stephen winced in pain with no apparent attention given by the other runner. The person behind him was so close Stephen was sure they were fighting to take in the same oxygen. The crowd was dense; no thinner than when he had waited in the corral to begin the race, only now the sea of bodies was about as gentle as whitewater rapids. Shoulders rubbed uncomfortably and any glimpse he caught of an open space which might provide respite shut without a moment’s notice, leaving him helplessly lodged inside the embrace of the runner’s field.

Without warning, the group around him slowed to a near stop. He could see that the turn ahead of them was causing a bottle necking effect. Claustrophobia didn’t set in until he bumped the side of another man and his shoulder slide off an oversized, hairy and sweaty arm that felt like it was covered in soap. Momentary nausea washed over him and Stephen raised his head towards the open sky in the hope of finding a happier place.

He gave in and allowed the aggravation of the crowded course to grind on him. To Stephen, everyone around him was a source of complaint and it caused him to seethe with an unjustified anger. The pointlessness of the entire event began to gnaw at him.

The running of 26.2 miles, he felt was an odd thing to celebrate. It was odd enough to run for the sake of running but it bothered Stephen even more as he considered the obscurity of the distance.

All this because some hero of antiquity ran all over the Greek countryside two and a half thousand years ago.

As a former soldier, Stephen could appreciate celebrating the battle, or the victory, or even the messenger who delivered a critical message. In the clasp of his current discomfort, he allowed his thoughts to became lost trying to understand the concept of celebrating the run itself?

Who came up with this distance? Where the heck did they come up with 26.2? When Pheidippides darted from the Battle of Marathon for Athens did he grab his water bottle and then stop off to program his GPS? What if he actually started from the far side of the battle field? Or heaven forbid he detoured after getting lost.

If Pheidippides had gotten lost, Stephen was pretty sure that part would have been left out of his report to the people of Athens. He recalled that after the Greek warrior got done running, whatever distance it actually happened to be, Pheidippides hastily delivered his message and immediately dropped dead on the stone floor. Now here they were celebrating his valiant effort by trying to do the same thing.

Stephen had to admit there was a really was a pointlessness to it all that made the effort unreasonable. A part of him wished he had his introspective conversation before he agreed to sign up for the race. At the very least, he would have a hundred bucks more in the bank. Paying for the opportunity to run towards your potential death placed aside, Stephen had not met anyone who regretted running a marathon. Along with the never-ending availability of unsolicited advice, he had received numerous words of encouragement as several friends and associates recounted their own marathon experiences. He felt he could appreciate that completion was an accomplishment of both training and the day’s performance. He respected the race enough to not expect this day to be just another day running, but that it would be like many hard things which challenged the body and mind yet proved itself worthwhile in the end.

“The person who starts the race is not the same person who finishes the race,” he had heard from more than one marathon veteran. Still, he had to wonder how many of those runners had a near Pheidippides-like experience of their own. If someone had a miserable run, would people really be bragging about it? Would they even bring up the idea of running a marathon? Or was it like being at the Christmas party with that guy who invested in the stock market and caught a winner that would soon be his ticket to investing guru status. Guys like Arwin; yes, who could possibly forget Arwin and his annual performances at the corporate Christmas parties.

Having been a member of the National Guard for several years, Stephen had a day job. Through a series of unpredictable events, he found himself pursuing a professional career in the real estate appraisal industry. Being a business predominately based upon relationships, Stephen spent a fair bit of time attending social events and building a network of potential clients. This gave him a chance to meet all types of characters and with the business development work he did for his company, he routinely bumped into those contacts around town and at seasonal events. Arwin was one of those hyper-extraverted personalities who could pull a room together at a moment’s notice. It was generally accepted by people in his circles that Arwin was an extremely intelligent man of significant success. People accepted this, not from his vast intellect or accomplishments, but because Arwin routinely told them that he was an extremely intelligent man of significant success. Stephen, taking a more passive approach to interacting with people, held the philosophy that the more someone spoke of their intellect, the lower the odds were that they actually had any. He spotted Arwin’s gift of gab immediately and made it a point to not get locked into discussions with the walking self-advertisement.

Arwin had the emotional balance of a roller coaster. His highs were near euphoric and his lows would typify him as a manic depressant. Despite his imbalance, Arwin sought life ventures wrought with uncontrollable variables. He worked as a mortgage broker and by nature of the industry his business often lived and died off of the Federal Reserve’s opinions on current interest rates.

A saving grace for Arwin was that he was married to an accomplished biophysicist who actually was brilliant and broadly recognized as a leading expert in her craft. She also happened to be a deep introvert, having a small supply of daily words that needed to be used. This meant that Arwin was accustomed to having cash to spare and a captive audience. The excess income paid for new homes, new cars and it supported his favorite hobby, the buying and selling stocks. In a bull financial market where the rising tide raises all ships, as well as investment portfolio balances, everyone thinks they are an expert trader. Arwin’s successes during the late 1990’s were representative of the massive market increases fueled by the unprecedented growth in technology stocks and newfound startups. The market was euphoric and investing caution was tossed overboard. It was during this time that Arwin became self-aware of his destiny to become the next Warren Buffett, the famous investor known as the Oracle of Omaha.

The annual Christmas party put on by Stephen’s employer brought together a cross section of industry types who had an interest in financial discussions. As a byproduct of the festivities, the event would frequently become the platform for Arwin to deliver his annual report to attendees; whether they wanted it or not. Stephen would quietly entertain himself by watching Arwin arrive and immediately begin to gather party guests for his report.

“Hey Sammy! Good to see you. Say, did you get in on that natural gas company I was telling you about?” Sammy, someone who was still used a pager from early 1990’s, would give an apologetic look as he tried to piece together a conversation he and Arwin apparently had several months beforehand.

The moment’s hesitation was all Arwin needed. “Ah, probably not. That stock looked pretty scary at first but those of us who had the gumption, got the reward; know what I mean?” He would toss a deviant smile and a nod before moving on and setting his sights on another unsuspecting prey. “Hey Philip! How’s your Merrill Lynch guy doing for ya? Still paying those red hot commissions for ice cold stock tips?”

For all his outlandish claims, many attendees would still fall into the trap of believing they were witnessing the reincarnation of Buffet’s mentor, Benjamin Graham. It was generally accepted by those more aware to observe the show from a distance, where one could remain cautious to not be mistaken for an Arwinian disciple. The entertainment of watching Arwin’s nauseating reality show routine was part curiosity and part hilarity for Stephen. He enjoyed the audience’s dramatic expressions of curiosity and wonder as Arwin bragged perpetually around his latest stock picks. He chuckled as the man would go on and on about the level of research he did and the “gut” feeling he so wisely acted upon despite a stock’s low reputation by the “so-called” analysts and the collective investment community. The whole conversation would amount to little more than a mental massage as the aspiring portfolio manager stroked his own ego for all to observe and marvel. He was quite content to elaborate to any unwitting audience who could be pulled in by a false hope of obtaining the slightest tip which would somehow perform an overnight transformation of their ever-lagging portfolios. Arwin didn’t care what happened to their investment portfolios, his only intention was to feast in the moment of their adoration and swim in their praise of his brilliance.

After a couple years of watching the routine, Stephen had learned that the bragger never revealed any indication of the amount of risk he actually took with any of his investments. The young oracle had been more than generous to discuss the infallibility of blending his keen observation skills and intuitive analysis along with his rare risk-embracing, edge of the cliff, daring personality. But in an offhanded conversation with Arwin’s wife one year, she casually let Stephen in on her husband’s secret. What Arwin would not discuss about any of his investments was how a pending confirmation screen for a stock purchase would routinely drive fear through every nerve in the oracle’s body. In response, he anguished to make a trade and always trimmed a couple of zeros off the investment amounts before submitting them; a glaring representation of his true self-confidence; or lack thereof. Stephen learned that despite the grand talk, Arwin never let his awe-inspired audience know that the cumulative investment in the high-flying success stock was little more than a tenth of a percent of his overall portfolio. It was extreme bungee jumping, but without the extreme, or the jumping, and probably more like looking at the bungee cord still wrapped in a box. Yes, the massive risk taking investment adventure taken by the “Oracle of the Christmas Party” was usually a transaction which may have succeeded in adding about $500 to his household net worth.

Congratulations sir, Warren would be proud.

Eventually, as though the cyclical nature of economic reality should be unexpected, bull markets gave way to bear markets and stock values fell. No matter how sound a financial strategy might be, the majority of investors were calling their financial advisors to ask how they could have possibly lost money. When it came to over-the-counter penny stocks whose volatility and risk exposure was often more than twice the level of broad markets, their fall would quickly become more of a plummet. Ironically, it was during those years when Arwin had conflicting plans and could not make his company’s Christmas party.

Similar to the investment heroes like Arwin, Stephen surmised that there were plenty of braggadocios runners who had stories which sounded more like, “I threw up my breakfast, hit my head on a curb when I passed out, talked to leprechauns, and eventually ran slower than I could have walked.” He hadn’t heard anything like this but it figured that the owners of those stories probably kept their mouths shut and never mentioned the time they tried to run a marathon. There had to be plenty of Arwins out on this course today.

This serpentine thought process provided Stephen with a temporary distraction from the frustration of being smothered by other runners, which had been mere speed walkers among the congestion. As pockets of air began to form between the runners, strides began to lengthen and personal space began to resemble a commonly accepted courtesy. He pondered the type of race he was in for? Would he talk about it or try not to mention it or hope somehow it got lost among the sea of topics that weren’t significant enough to remember. The Rookie felt frustrated, nervous and excited all at the same time.

Having embraced an interest in long distance running, Stephen had spent time watching some of the marathon qualifying competitions building up for the Olympic Summer Games the following year. It was both impressive and inspiring. But he simply couldn’t relate to someone who ran at that level; to run full speed for a marathon distance. In his view there was no association between what he was now doing and the unimaginable display of athleticism performed by what was clearly Human 2.0.

Still, he had enjoyed watching runners compete at such a high level. He was particularly impressed by the style and coordination of the race start. Even though their marathon run pace was faster than his all-out sprint, the Olympians had opened the race with a grace not unlike a herd of gazelle taking off in unison. Each had their strategic paths laid before them as if guided by imaginary lines telling each runner where they would go straight and where they would pass another runner without disturbing the herd’s stride. Stephen had wondered about how the herd would move on the morning of his race. Certainly the fastest of the gazelle would lead from the start. The rest would be farther behind but the unison effort of the herd would no doubt still be set in place as a universally accepted truth. Every runner knew where they were supposed to be. The unspoken professional understanding would create an orderly fashion so as to provide inspiration and motivation to the other herd members. Though tortoises when compared to the Olympians, his marathon peers would simply fall into the herd mentality and gracefulness would prevail.

Gazelles my ass!

This chaos was nothing close to the graceful herd he had envisioned. Stephen shifted along the road, dodging midstride collisions with other runners as they cut across him from either side. The organization and discipline of the herd looked more like someone had just dropped a firecracker in a room of sleeping cats. With the field beginning to space out, runners blindly darted in all directions at varying rates of speed and disorientation. Stephen could see they were yearning to break free of the crowd and would rush to fill pockets of available space which opened before them. They were as aggressive as water flowing into a crevasse, launching themselves without regard and then immediately looking for the next opening. Stephen was pretty sure he saw someone running in the opposite direction and the lady tailgating behind him was so close she seemed to be trying to hitch a ride on his back. The crowd was as graceful as the pothole-ridden concrete road was smooth and in a race of 11,000 anticipated participants, a 10,000-body pile up was all but inevitable.

Runners crowded all around, many moving from side to side in a vain attempt to get past the people directly in front of them. This only caused others to sidestep in half successful attempts to avoid a collision. The result was the same as every major highway in every major city; congestion and frequent slowdowns resulting from everyone in the left lane wanting to be in the right lane and everyone in the right lane was simultaneously determined to be in the left. Stephen constantly found himself apologizing for bumping or elbowing the person next to him. After the fifth episode of incidental impact he was completely out of amends and resolved to offer no further concessions. Upon the next side swipe with another random stranger he didn’t even bother to glance at the victim of his battery offense. Apparently, this was not rude as the runner said nothing to him either. After another half mile of feeling like a bumper car, he sensed he could have run completely over someone and would not have felt any obligation to apologize. Stephen was well beyond the starting line and while the density of the course had thinned a tad, the zigzag of the crowd was now stifling. Though they were moving faster, he was still perturbed by the feeling of being boxed in among the other sardines in shorts.

Mile 3

Stephen tried to distract his mind from the disorganized hoard by taking note of the personalities among the crowds they passed. There seemed to a complete disregard for any rules of engagement between the crowd and the runners. Sometimes an observer would play an odd game of chicken and dart across the road attempting to cross through a gap of runners without being leveled by oncoming foot traffic. Some of the observers would get most of the way across only to see the approaching crowd, give a bright eyed look of pure shock and then, like a squirrel caught in the headlights, dart back to their original position. Stephen found this particular distraction to be quite humorous; as if the person was suddenly surprised to see hundreds of people bearing down on them. One lady with a camera froze in the middle of the path as if to accept her fate and allow the runners to wash over her. Runners apologetically bouncing off her while she attempted to become the thinnest version of herself.

Stephen considered that while was one thing to get up at a ridiculous hour before both sun and rooster, it was an entirely different level psychosis to forcefully will yourself to put on thin garments, line up in the cold weather, and proceed to run 26.2 miles for the sake of sport and the promise of clunky piece of metal to reward the finishers. Stephen could feel the sea of sardines beginning to further spread out. The sun slowly progressed above the horizon, bringing a sliver of warmth alongside the air despite temperatures procrastinating well below comfortable. The runners approached a bend in the road which, according to the race map Stephen had studied the day before, was the last turn before they exited the city streets. The bend was a gradual turn with buildings and restaurants whose owners had the good senses to stay rested. The steady scent of morning mist was abruptly interrupted by the welcome but harnessing grasp of freshly baked bread. Almost immediately, Stephen’s eyes locked onto the glowing neon sign indicating a bakery was open.

His mother’s favorite meal of the day had always been breakfast. Rebecca was an early riser who held a strict morning routine of coffee and a quiet reading time on her back porch. Stephen hadn’t always known this person of his mother. In his childhood, he recalled a much more distant woman, one obsessed with appearances and the latest neighborhood gossip. The mother he grew up with was caring but Stephen would have hesitated to call her loving. When the days didn’t revolve around her part-time work schedule, Rebecca’s social calendar often got in the way. As a child, it was not uncommon for Stephen to be late for school as she refused to leave the house without “having her face on.” In those days, he was nearly always the last to be picked up at the end of the day. When Stephen joined the ranks of middle school and walking to meet the bus became an option, Rebecca was rarely out of bed before he left.

Somewhere in the year or two after Stephen graduated high school and left the house, Rebecca changed. Stephen noticed it almost immediately when she started joining her husband on his frequent business trips. Before long, he realized there were subtle differences emerging; her makeup softened, her style of clothing changed and her friends were different. During infrequent visits home, Stephen was surprised and even a little alarmed to hear Rebecca stirring around the house before the sun rose. In a tender conversation between a mother and her only child one cool fall Saturday morning, Rebecca apologized for her prior habits and how it had hurt Stephen as a child. She shared with him her experiences attending a new church in the neighborhood and how her perspective had changed. Much of what she said that morning was lost on Stephen as he had heard of religious conversions before, which he knew typically got lost when old habits returned. But Stephen watched Rebecca’s new habits stick.

She was cheerfully energetic and before long she started taking up new hobbies that seemed quite random to Stephen. He watched over time as Rebecca began reading more non-fiction books and enjoying photography. She visited people from her church with whom she had no history. The strangest of all was when she began making bread; lot of bread. Akin to a sweet old lady welcoming the new neighbors with cookies, Rebecca took a loaf of freshly made bread as a gift to someone nearly every time she left the house. Becoming a routine benefactor of her newfound baking, he cheekily told her the increased frequency in his visits had everything to do with the relationship between his single man’s diet and her baking skills. In truth, he knew it was because he now enjoyed her company. She was genuinely different, and while Stephen was growing in his own ways, he saw his mother as someone to respect and appreciate. Stephen felt the new woman Rebecca had come to be was compassionate, relatable and above all things, loving.

When Stephen had his own family, Rebecca enjoyed treating their household by bringing artisan breads on a somewhat regular basis. On weekends when Stephen left for the weekend to attend to his monthly National Guard duties, Rebecca made it a point to bring over a fresh loaf and spend an extra couple of hours helping and being a friend to Sarah. On more than one occasion when Rebecca knew he was having a tough time with work, life or family balance, she had been known to stop by early in the morning and treat Stephen to a warm breakfast sandwich made from bread so fresh it was still solidifying after its escape from the oven.

Stephen smiled at the thought of those early morning visits from his mother and supplemented the memory by fantasizing over the street bakery’s enticing aroma. With a deep breath, he took in the vivid image of a strip of maple soaked bacon, an over-easy egg and a thinly cut slice of longhorn cheddar cheese layered between two pieces of freshly baked rustic rosemary bread. The hairline slice of a knife caused the egg to flow a river of yolk along the ridges of ham and fill every crevasse of the bread.

Is that sweat or am I drooling?

Realizing that his daydream may not be best suited for the moment at hand he resolved that pulling over and taking a seat at the bakery might not be the best race strategy. He wasn’t overly concerned about the pace of his run and certainly not interested to see how fast he could go. Just a finish would suffice as a personal record, or “PR”, as many runners had described to him. Still, Stephen resolved to himself that a fifteen minute breakfast break might not be advisable at mile three. The commanding scent of freshly made biscotti and a steaming cup of a mocha-tinted espresso remained a tempting proposition.

Passing the bakery, Stephen saw a long stretch of people lingering along the street’s curb. As the sea of jogging bodies approached, the bystanders’ cheer began to rise. Stephen saw an opportunity to take a wide route in the hopes of getting out of the suffocating center. He stepped so close to the edge of the street that he had to sharply cut back in order to keep his next step from going onto the curb. He caught the eyes of a brightly dressed older woman standing on the curb and hollering while clapping her gloved hands. She had on a flannel long-sleeved shirt and thickly woven purple beanie cap. Her shoulders shrugged up as she shivered through each clap. Her encouraging holler from flushed cheeks released a plume of warm air as breath fogged out in front of her. Stephen thought about the absurdity of the moment and looked at the lady three feet away from him with confusion.

She is absolutely nuts for being out here this early in this cold just to yell at a bunch of people who should, frankly, have their own heads examined!

Feeling it was best to call the woman out for her lunacy, Stephen looked directly at her, opened his mouth and said, “Thank you!”

The frigid air and torrent wind was miraculously beginning to give way to a crisp, bright morning. For the first time Stephen considered the idea that frostbite may not overcome him after all. Periodically, a lagging gust of wind from the earlier system would come along and deliver cutting streaks to remind him that warmth had not yet overtaken the day. With the sun burning off the daybreak clouds, Stephen’s body was now able to fend off the gusts which had threatened to change his mind about the day’s plans. The wind now applied a more welcome breeze as hints of a clear day were slowly beginning to emerge.

Stephen had a steady stride going when he approached the first aid station. The path before him was checkered with random pods of teenagers handing out small cups of water to the runners as he approached a row of long white tables managed by a group of adults who filled up paper cups as quickly as possible. A handful of teenagers cheered Stephen on as he arrived at the station. He noticed several more tables set up which served energy drinks and some fruit. Slowing down to a brief pause at a table with a few spills of a purple sports drink, he graciously accepted a cup from a smiling but awkward teenage boy. He then took an orange from a petite teenage girl with an oversized smile, braces and a pleasant, outgoing personality. Stephen guessed, with a high degree of certainty, that she was the source of the boy’s morning awkwardness. Even more likely, she was the rationale behind the boy’s very presence on this frigid morning. As he navigated through the other runners and moved away from the table Stephen tossed his empty cup into a large trash can. The paper cup bounced off the far end, ricocheted up and dropped into the waste can. Apparently, he was the first to actually make that shot; evidenced by the fact that the asphalt around the can was the site of an intense battle in which the armies decimated one another with paper products. The entire area was covered with crumpled cups. Stephen guessed it was probably hard to see the massive blue can with the oversized silver spray painted letters marking the receptacle as T-R-A-S-H.

“Nice shot there! Banked it off the back,” a friendly voice came from up ahead.

Stephen smiled back. “Thanks. That’s actually what I came out here for today. I’ve been preparing for weeks just to make that shot. I’m done now. On my way home.”

“Well, in that case,” said the lean and aged man in the dark sweatshirt which made his bright-yellow beanie cap stand out even more than it normally would, “home’s just about 23 miles that way. The good news is that you’re going in the right direction.” His cap had a cartoon runner with a black cat atop the runner’s head with the word ‘Maniac’ stenciled above; Stephen reconciled that it was another oddity of the morning.

“That’s reassuring. I was afraid I still had a long way to go.” Stephen acknowledged the friendly chat as he began to pick his pace up again. He reasoned it best not to ask, stare or do anything else to bring attention to the man’s cap. As he thought back to the man with clown shoes, somehow the cultural oddities of race wear just didn’t stand out as all that strange anymore. Apparently, there were subcultures in the running community like these Maniacs. They had their own style and questionable levels of sanity must be part of the membership criteria.

“Hey there! You’re probably gonna want one of these in a little while.” Another man handed him a small gel packet marked ‘jet blackberry’.

“Yeah, thanks. Take care!”

“You’re doing great. Keep up the good work.” The man stepped back and began offering the gel packets to other runners.

Gel packs were not a foreign substance to Stephen. He had learned that part of the secret to completing a marathon was eating during the race. Endurance running was a calorie deficient sport and he knew how important it was to get back some of the energy he was burning. While not the best tasting meal, they were a great way to replenish electrolytes and proteins during a calorie-deficient sport like endurance running. Besides, in Stephen’s mind, few items could challenge the intestinal fortitude he had developed by eating the US Army’s lightweight field ration, the Meal, Ready-to Eat, or MRE. Though, his squad had generally referred to them as Meals, Rarely-Edible.

He ripped off the top of the packet and began squeezing the partially solidified, sticky blob into his mouth. He forced it down and despite being a gel, he found himself having to chew his way through the taste. It didn’t go down well but he knew it was an essential need to fuel his body for the path ahead.

Just imagine it tastes like honey-ham sandwich, maple soaked bacon and a gushing over-easy egg.

The mental imagery didn’t work and he burped something which tasted like a cross between an oyster and a blob of highly processed fruit.

The race continued to thin out as the faster runners increased their lead. Meanwhile, several runners mistook the aid station for a rest area of sorts during the timed event. Several people were around him, but as he left the refreshments area there was more than enough room on the road for him to become comfortable and settle into his own personal imaginary lane. Stephen saw his path forward and continued to force down the last of the gel packet. The road ahead led past an abandoned warehouse and on the other side was a long clear stretch with a gentle grade. The sun continued to press above the horizon, warming the road and eventually succeeded in repelling the frigid darts which had persisted in hitchhiking along the wind. Most runners welcomed the sun’s late rise from its slumber as it heaved back heavy blankets of clouds. The long stretch of its rays met the morning and began to gradually raise the temperature. The sun’s emerging heat reached out from the horizon and pressed against Stephen’s back to reveal his shadow along the road. It was as if the day had woke ready to announce that this would be a bright and cloud free day after all. Sensing the foreshadowing of the magnificently clear day which lay ahead, a pit formed in Stephen’s stomach as he recalled another day which began just as charming. A day which taught him that a beautifully clear day could still be the darkest of them all.

Mile 4

Even in the arid heat of the Iraqi desert, early spring was a pleasant time of year. The daytime weather was cool but without a trace of humidity. Stephen had taken time to appreciate the slightly cooler mornings. The desert area west of Baghdad was a bit windier thanks to the chilled air coming off Habbaniyah Lake. Being surrounded by a desert, there wasn’t much to see. The thought of catching the tranquil glare of sunlight reflecting off of a desert lake that happened to be in a war zone was an appealing contradiction not lost on him. Given time, it might be nice to take a detour with the squad and spend a couple of hours doing recon at the lake; from the interior of the lake, of course. He knew how unlikely that would be. Thinking about the heightened sense of urgency coming from the brass in recent days, Stephen put visiting the lake on his list of things-that-are-most-likely-not-to-get-done-anytime-soon. Still, he took a moment to set aside those thoughts and simply focused on the brilliance of what was determined to become a beautifully cloudless day.

“Sarge. Hey, Sarge!” Hooper’s voice from the backseat loudly interrupted the vehicle’s heavy rumble. “I’m off. Your turn.” Hooper reached in from his crouched perch in the humvee’s open gunner mount where he had been bent over having a conversation with stateside family. He stretched out his arm to pass the borrowed satellite phone over to Chelp.

Time to call home was always at a premium when they were ‘in theater’. Their benevolent Colonel had secured a few satellite phones for the unit to pass around. While not perfect, the satellite phone’s signal was much better than a cell phone. But more importantly, it meant soldiers didn’t have to pack roaming minutes onto their personal cells which typically ran upwards of five dollars per minute. Thanks to the duty officer leaving a memo for SSG Lantz to “call home,” his squad had been given the privilege of using one of the Colonel’s satellite phones. Ensuring his squad members had the opportunity to use it first; it was now Stephen’s turn. He placed an open palm on his shoulder to receive the phone. His eyes, cloaked behind the hardened plastic of heavily tinted sunglasses, remained fixed on the duvet of sand expanding beyond his sight.

Other than the never-ending swirl of gritty sand, the day’s unchanging scenery was garnished with the olive-green backside of a troop-loaded M35 diesel truck; affectionately known as the deuce-and-a-half. The M35 was an extremely loud 15,000 pound workhorse for several armed services throughout the world. While the majority of the American units came to Iraq with light to medium tactical vehicles, Stephen’s unit, like many Guard units, relied on a healthy supply of the 10-wheeled deuce-and-a-halfs. The heavy transport vehicles came coupled with those individuals who were comfortable driving and fixing them in all types of terrains, including the unending and ever-corrosive sand bed they trudged through on this day.

The goal of caravan speed, though quicker in hostile territory, was to stay a safe but consistently tight distance behind the vehicle in front of you. Maintaining a steady speed with his team’s humvee was an easy task for Tomlison. He felt a comfort staring at the back half of other vehicles for long stretches of the day. It reminded the Illinois native of his life back in the states. Even if Chicago traffic wasn’t the most appealing part of the Windy City, he often mentioned that he felt more secure and at ease when packed in tightly within the barriers of the concrete jungle he called home. Tomlison did, however, prefer having granulars of sand kicked into his windshield to the unpredictability of blinding rain and snow.

A few weeks prior, a ragged band of foreign insurgents had hit an American convoy in the city of Al Fallujah. One of the soldiers killed in the ambush was a general who served as a commander in the 82nd Airborne. Stephen knew plenty of airborne paratroopers and they were the type who took an attack on their commander extremely personally. It had gotten ugly and now units from the 82nd were making daily hits in the city to suppress and disarm locals who had turned hostile towards American troops. The situation inside Al Fallujah was going from worse to intolerable as the city turned against its foreign ally, and self-proclaimed magistrates began publically torturing and brutally killing anyone suspected of being an informant for the Americans. There was even talk about pulling out the non-military contractors from the city. But then arrived the superior officers which meant politicians became involved. And with politicians came cameras. Cameras which caused rational, strategically thinking men to wander far into the land of fairies and pixy dust where they pandered to the media and made promises they knew they wouldn’t be around to keep. Unicorns were in full gallop by the time the American viewership was promised a calm, peaceful resolution to the “temporary disagreement.” Now Stephen and his men were assisting in the work to resolve that disagreement by riding down a highway and pulling security for a deuce-and-a-half loaded with soldiers who were armed to the teeth. All the while, Hooper kept a watchful eye from atop their humvee and a ready two-handed grip on the trigger lever of his mounted .50 caliber machine gun.

Stephen closed his grip on the phone Chelp had placed into his palm and looked for an opportunity to finally interrupt Tomlison; who was going nonstop about the Chicago Redwings and how hockey was among the few true sports based purely on the speed in which you could lose teeth. Within his pontification, Tomlison did give an off-handed compliment in the direction of rugby players. “They know how to hit but they can’t skate. It takes real talent to pull off a full body check while racing at top speed down on the ice.” To the best of Stephen’s memory, nobody had even mentioned rugby players. But Tomlison was a guy who could generate both sides of a discussion and he didn’t wait around for rebuttals. Thinking this one through, Stephen was pretty sure no one had even spoken to Tomlison since he started talking, that of course being the moment they entered the humvee.

Stephen wanted the phone only slightly more then he wanted out of the one-dimensional monologue. He leaned over and gripped Tomlison’s arm and told the driver, “Give me a minute to land this call.”

“Roger that, Sarge. Of course.” Tomlison placed an elbow on the window seam while keeping his right arm relaxed on the wheel of the humvee and settled back into his happy place among the bumper-to-bumper traffic of the barren desert road.

Stephen did his best to listen for Sarah to answer her phone over the steady rumble of the convoy. He knew it would be evening but not before Hailey went to bed so there was a good chance he could speak with her too. Conversing inside the humvee was a difficult, but not impossible task over the roar from the engines ahead. Satellite phones had a decent history of retaining the connection long enough to have a full conversation with someone. Conversations with Sarah had been somewhat infrequent. Communication during the conversations, even less so. Each of their discussions were an attempt to catch up while trying to deal with the challenges of deployment, separation and the pressures of everyday life.

When Sarah finally answered there was a volley of “hellos” as they both attempted to confirm the connection, appreciate the sound of each other’s voice, and do their best to avoid talking over one another.

“Did you say Hailey’s already in bed?” Stephen hadn’t been able to talk with Hailey the last time he called because she had been running a fever and gone to bed early. Sarah’s insistence that their daughter was routinely exhausted was a compounding of frustration as he already struggled with the fact that he couldn’t tuck his little girl into bed each night. “Can’t you just wake her up?” he complained. “She’s three, Sarah, not thirteen.” Among the challenges he had during his deployment, infrequent conversations with Hailey during his rare calls home tested his patience more than anything.

Sarah sighed, “I can’t right now. She needs her rest. I know it goes without saying but I need you to know we really miss you.” His wife continued on with their conversation but Stephen could read a tone that hinted at something else needing to be addressed.

“You know I would be there if I could. But I know you gals will be fine until I get back.”

“I know. But it’s not just the normal stuff anymore.” Sarah’s voice seemed to quiver.

“Is everything okay? Sarah? What’s going on?” Sensing the fear in her voice, Stephen mentally shifted into fix-it mode.

“Stephen, Hailey’s still sick.”

“What did you say? She’s sick again?”

“No, not again. She hasn’t gotten better since the last time we spoke… I just don’t know,” Sarah’s voice trailed off as the connection began to crackle, and Stephen knew there was a chance they could get cut off at any moment.

“Did you say she hasn’t gotten better? It’s been almost a month. How can she still be sick? Did you take her to Dr. Bennet? What did he say? Did he give her…”

Sarah interrupted but her voice faded, “Stephen, I did. Listen, I spoke to… Stephen, he sent us to…”

“She shouldn’t be sick this long. Has my mother come by?” The abrupt, commanding tone of his voice caused the rest of the humvee to pause their sideline conversations. Each man respectfully pretended to be disinterested and stared off into their own far off piece of unchanging desert landscape.

“Yes, you’re mother has been wonderful. Rebecca’s here almost every day when she’s not taking your father to his therapy appointments.” Sarah tried to regain control of their conversation but she was unsure of what was most important to say during their short chance to talk and the risk of losing the call at any moment.

“Then maybe you need to take Hailey to another doctor off post,” Stephen interrupted again, “they can run some tests and find out why she isn’t getting better.”

Continually pressed by her husband’s aggressive tone, Sarah’s tone turned direct and forceful. “Stephen, listen to me. The military’s program doesn’t work the same way your company insurance did. When you activated with the Guard and we switched over to the Army’s program, sure, we got the lower rates and that’s been great for our budget, but we don’t get to choose which doctors we use now.”

Unfazed by the frustration he was causing her, Stephen unconsciously sought to manage his wife’s efforts. “Okay. Look Sarah, I may not be there but I can still help. On base there’s got to be another family practice we can use.”

“There’s not. Don’t you think I thought of that?” Taking deeper breaths, Sarah held a firm grip on the phone and tried not to let her husband’s lecture spark off her temper. “Stephen, that’s not the real problem. I need you to…”

Grasping for ideas in a situation he didn’t fully understand, Stephen continued, “You should be able to get some kind of referral to a specialist or something. You have to push for it, Sarah. Don’t let them push you around. Stay on them.”

Patiently ignoring the fact that her husband was speaking to her like he would one of his soldiers, Sarah paused and let out a long sigh. “Stephen. Yes. That’s what I was trying to tell you. They are sending us to a specialist.”

A sense of powerlessness came over him as Stephen realized he truly had no way of helping. They seemed to have always struggled with Hailey’s health, more so than other parents. She was that kid who was constantly fighting an ear or sinus infection. The common cold was never more common than with Hailey. But this seemed different; she had never been sick continuously. For a brief moment, he quietly questioned his wife’s ability to navigate their daughter through the confusion of the military medical bureaucracy. A burning anguish filled him as he levied unjustified blame on Sarah, and he dropped his tone from commanding to condescending. “Well then, you tell me what’s wrong with her, Sarah? She can’t be sick for an entire month and the doctor still not know what it is.”

Sarah took in a deep breath as doubt hovered above her next words. Part of her wanted to dump the news on him in repayment for the lecture she had just endured. Another part didn’t want to tell him at all. If she didn’t say it, would it be any less real? Her husband was on the other side of the world with no actual ability to step in and help. Would knowing do anything but worry and distract him? She thought about his own wartime stress and the fear of him not being able to function because he could be distracted by their daughter’s health. What if being distracted caused him to do something that got him killed? Her fears overwhelmed her and as she began speaking before coming up with the words to say.

“They’re not sure but the doctors are worried Hailey might have something called neuro…ma.” A crackle of the phone’s connection suggested a strain in the signal. “It’s a…”

Stephen couldn’t restrain his tone as he fought with the aggravating combination of not being able to hear Sarah completely through the engine roar and periodic breaks of the phone while the signal traveled to outer space and back. The stress of knowing something was wrong with Hailey only compounded his impatience and his voice rose with a harsh edge over the sound of the transports. “What? She has neuro-base, what? What is that? What does that mean?”

“No. We’re not sure if she has it. We don’t know yet. The doctor said it might be a neuroblastoma. It’s a form of …” She sounded as if she was struggling to maintain her own patience with the choppy connection, but Stephen could tell it was more than the connection that filled his wife’s voice with a fearful hesitation.

His heart seemed to stop. His head knew where this was going but his mind couldn’t register the reality of the moment. Nothing was right. He felt a strange coolness in the back of his sinuses even as he breathed in the warm desert air more clearly than he ever had. His arms tingled and felt weightless, as if all the blood had drained from them. Composing his words more carefully, he calmly asked, “Sarah, I don’t know what that is. What does that mean? Is our daughter alright?”

Stephen jammed a finger into the opposite ear to block out the noise and struggled to hear words which were not being said. In the choppiness of her attempts to respond he tried to fill in the gaps with his own thoughts but they were dark and he pushed them away, opting instead for an attempt to hear her words. This lasted only a few seconds before her silence overcame him. In his feelings of helplessness, he peppered her with more questions. “How long will she be sick?”

Sarah gathered her thoughts and began slowly, “I don’t know. I’m trying to get answers. I don’t know exactly what to tell you or how to tell you at all. Stephen, listen to me, please. Hailey’s not alright. She might be very sick.”

“Are the antibiotics she can take? Do they know how she got it?”

Sarah couldn’t keep up with as Stephen continued his rapid-fire interrogation. “I don’t know. Do you hear me, I just don’t know.”

Stephen harshly interrupted, “Well, how sick is she? When will we know something?”

“Damn-it, Stephen! Stop. Just stop it!” Sarah paused after the outburst and attempted to regain her composure. “When I took her to see Dr. Bennett she had bruising on her legs and upper back; like, near her neck. He said something about her blood cells getting oxygen and maybe she didn’t have enough platelets and that was causing her to bruise at night. It was enough to make Dr. Bennett concerned so he had them run a blood test and then they sent us to the downtown hospital that same day. Stephen, they found… they found a tumor…” A stillness covered the phone’s line as Sarah’s muffled voice fought through strained emotions in an attempt to finish her sentence. “They found a tumor on her spine.”

Sarah’s tearful voice reached aimlessly over the line. “Did you hear me, Stephen? It’s a tumor. The doctors think she might have cancer. Can you hear me? Please tell me you can hear me.”

The silence engulfed the phone and the miles between her words brought Stephen’s entire thought process to a halt. He couldn’t get a grasp on what his wife was telling him. He heard the words but as he stared out over the desert they were impossible to hold on to. He felt flushed and struggled to focus, unable to make sense of Sarah’s explanation. Her words continued to elude him, sifting through his mind like sand trickling off the palms of his hands. It seemed as though someone else pushed the words from his lips as he sat motionless. “Yes. I hear you.”

Mile 5

For a moment Stephen regretted calling Sarah. Then, without any intention of his own will, the sergeant’s instinct took over and he began demanding answers with direct and accountable responses, “Did you get a second opinion? We need to run some more tests. Who did you see? Doctors misdiagnose stuff all the time. I want the number of someone in charge.”

“Stephen, we don’t get a second opinion. I’m taking her to a specialist tomorrow to have more blood work done and they’ll confirm some counts on her white blood cells. We spoke with them over the phone, and they asked me to plan on being there the whole day because if it is cancer…” Sarah’s strength gave in to a wave of sadness. “They said they would need to start chemotherapy the next morning. She might need red blood cells and platelets.” She interrupted herself, “I don’t even know what a platelet is!”

Taking in an exhaustingly deep breath, Sarah continued, “And if she needs a heavy dose of chemo then they said they might have to do some sort of port. Apparently, it’s like a piece of metal the size of a quarter or something. Stephen, they want to put this thing inside of our daughter!”

“Sarah, we don’t know that yet.” Stephen had no idea what to do or even if he’d get to use the phone again that week. But it didn’t slow him from confidently instructing Sarah, “I need to call these doctors. Send me their numbers. I need to have a conversation. I can call later today when we get…”

“No. I don’t need you to call them.” Sarah sharply responded, “It won’t do any good. You can’t do anything beyond what I’m already doing here. I’m having to make major decisions on the fly and I already doubt every move I make. You arguing with the doctors is only going to confuse things.” Her voice quivered and became muffled as if her chin had just been pressed deeply into her chest.

Stephen rebutted out of instinct, “But we need to do something else and make sure…”

“Stephen! There is no ‘we’! It’s only me. Do you hear me; it’s just me right now. I’m the only parent who’s here!” Stephen could now hear the flood of tears she had been holding back and he became acutely aware that Sarah had been carrying the burden of this struggle without him. She was overwhelmed and he couldn’t imagine what she had been facing over the past couple of days while he was thousands of miles away. He thought about Hailey and how scared she must have been in a hospital surrounded by strangers and being handled by staff attending to her. The thought of his little girl being confused and scared brought a fear into his own mind. There was a long pause as they both caught their breath.

“Stephen, I need you to be here. There’s no question I need your help. But I know you can’t. I know that’s not an option. So at least trust that I’m doing the right thing because I don’t know that I am. The nurses, doctors and your mother are great but I’m not sure about what else I’m supposed to be doing; I only know that I’m doing it.”

His tone calmed but the beats from his chest continued their rapid pace. “Sarah, I’m sorry. This has to be impossibly hard for you. I want to be there.” Stephen’s thoughts grew distracted as he began playing out options in his mind. He knew the Colonel was a caring leader who would be sympathetic but Stephen had no idea what the Army would do with his situation. Even if he could get permission for emergency leave, he had no idea how to get everything done. It took time to turn equipment in, get orders and then there was the very important question about out how to get a flight out of a hostile environment. There were too many questions swirling in his mind and clarity eluded him.

“Sarah, look. I’ll talk to the CO when I get back. It’s possible I can get leave to come home.” He knew he needed to say more but encouragements were worthless and ideas were burdensome. In his helplessness, he spoke. “I just need you to keep it together until I get back.” Stephen knew it was the absolute wrong thing to say to his struggling wife, but his head was a crowded platter on the brink of tipping, his words were a cup filled to the brim and all he could do was helplessly watch them spill out.

The insensitive instruction broke Sarah’s wall of patience and understanding, giving way to an enraged yell that echoed through the humvee. “Keep it together? Are you serious? What do you think I’m doing over here? While you’re on the other side of the planet, I am the only one keeping everything together.”

The silence that followed reached beyond the phone and each man in the vehicle awkwardly busied himself. He knew he deserved the outrage but he hardly had the fortitude necessary to bring some level of peace back into the conversation.

“Please, Stephen,” Her voice sounded more broken than angry but her softened tone felt stronger than the previous berating he had just received. “I can’t wait around for you to get back. I’m running the house, trying to pay all the bills that keep coming. I was already barely remembering to get the mail most days but now it’s the last thing I’m thinking about and I’m sure it’s just piled up and pretty soon our pissed-off mailman will just start dumping it at the door.” Her thoughts were mixed like spaghetti and Stephen could hear her discouragement in every word, but it only frustrated him more that he couldn’t fix anything. He was useless.

Sarah tried again, “I just want to make Hailey feel better but I can’t. We’ve been seeing doctor after doctor over the last two days. If they find it’s cancer like they think then they want to bombard her system and keep her in the hospital for a month. We’ll have to see even more doctors and then also have to do meetings with hospital counselors and the Army’s family morale program too. There’s already a ton of paperwork and I have no idea how to fill most of it out. The nurse said if its cancer then I should prepare for a lot of waivers for side effects to chemo.”

“What sort of waivers?” Stephen injected.

“I don’t know, Stephen. It’s tons of stuff. Waivers for things like heart attacks, a stroke, and learning disabilities that might not even show up for 10 years.” Sarah paused and began to force her words out through a sob. “This stuff is horrible but Stephen, but what choice would we have?”

Sarah paused as if replaying every medical conversation through her mind before softly speaking again, “The hospital doctor. Umm, he told me all of this stuff like she could be ‘High-Risk’ and they wish they had diagnosed her earlier and that I’m supposed to prepare because if she has this type of cancer then there’s like this 5-year survival number they talk about that means she has something like a 40 percent chance or something.” Sarah blasted out in a tearful release. “40 percent? What the hell am I supposed to do with a number? How am I supposed to tell our little girl that everything’s going to be fine when I’ve got 40 percent rolling around in my head?”

Stephen blinked hard to keep his eyes focused on the space in front of him as the heavy wind gusts pushed sand drifts farther into the road ahead of them.

Sarah continued and made no attempt to prevent him from hearing her tears through the words, “She fell last week and hurt her knee. When she started crying I went to hold her but when I touched her back it hurt her even more than the scratch on her knee. I lifted up her shirt and she had bruises. That was the first time I had seen them. I told the nurses at the hospital when we got there but they said bruising was consistent with the disease and that I shouldn’t be overly concerned about the bruising itself. How am I not supposed to be concerned about it when my baby is in pain and I can’t do a thing to help her?” Stephen’s emotions roared but he couldn’t separate the anger of being so far away from the hurt of not being able to hold either of them.”

“She started crying for you yesterday. She told me her body hurt and that you would fix it. She said because Daddy always fixes things. She wants you home because she knows that I can’t make the hurt go away. She was standing there crying and screaming at me to bring you home and I know it’s because she’s in pain but all I want to do is make this go away and have you here with us.” A lifetime seemed to pass in the moment Sarah caught her breath, “But this won’t go away and you can’t come home… and you can’t fix this.”

Stephen blinked and he felt a release in his eye as a tearful stream slipped over his dust covered cheekbone.

“So I held her as calmly and gently as I could until the medicine kicked in and she fell asleep in my arms. And then I cried. Without making a sound, I just sat there on the floor holding her and I cried, Stephen. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stop it anymore than I could bring you home tonight. As quietly as I could so I wouldn’t wake her up. I don’t know how many hours passed but I just sat there and cried.”

Sarah’s release of frustrations broke Stephen. She was right, he couldn’t fix this. His daughter needed him more than anything and he couldn’t even be there to tell her everything would be alright; even if it meant lying to her. His anger drifted into the desert as he surveyed the cloudless day. A pit formed in his stomach. It seemed to pull him down and he felt his body physically contracting as frustration turned to emptiness and the emptiness brought about a terrifying fear.

Stephen had been gripping the vehicle’s guardrail in front of him, oblivious that his knuckles were turning white. Sarah had to know this was killing him. Didn’t she know he couldn’t do anything while so far away? This desert traipse had never been his choice. But it was his decision to step forward, to volunteer and take a stand for something greater than himself. Stephen had always known Army life would be more complicated with a family. Sarah had agreed and they had both believed that the National Guard would be a family friendly endeavor. He had always known that serving meant sacrifice, but now he question whether the trade-off had been a mistake. The guilt only made the pit in his stomach heavier.

He looked pointlessly along the long sandy road they were traveling. On the horizon he saw a rusted-out vehicle parked on the side of the road. The car had been left too far off the shoulder and it was covering up about a quarter of the lane they were traveling on. Stephen stared at the broken down car simply because it gave him a point of reference while the hurricane in his mind whipped around. Vehicles in their convoy moved to the center of the road to pass the car. Stephen became conscience that he was leaning against the passenger side door of the humvee. Perhaps it was less like leaning and more like indenting. He lifted his head a bit, aware that his tension had caused him to press his head firmly against the glass. If he hadn’t been wearing the helmet he would have certainly bruised his forehead; instead there was just a tender spot from grinding his melon into the bands under the lip of the protective helmet. He adjusted the Kevlar helmet and secured it back firmly on his head.

He glanced out the passenger window again and caught sight of his own reflection. A glimmer of light reflected off the window and caused him to look away. Taking a deep breath out of exhaustion, Stephen was surprised by an unexpected sense of peace that began to blanket over him. The welcome pause gave him a touch of clarity as he considered Sarah’s words. In his mind he heard himself say that Sarah wasn’t the enemy here.

Sarah broke the silence and calmly said, “The doctors. They know this is big and they’ve been patient with me and really sweet to Hailey.”

Stephen could tell her own patience was in overdrive. “I’m sorry I’m not there.”

“I know. It’s, it’s… anyway, the doctors. They talked a little about…” her voice trembled but she retained her composure, “they talked a little about a multi-phased approach. It might include surgery, radiation, chemo treatments and they even mentioned stem cells.”

“Sarah, I don’t know.”

“I don’t know either.” The tension in her voice wound her tight and she began to ramble, “Stephen, it’s not like I know anything more about this stuff what I’ve overheard in other people’s conversations. Somebody had to have surgery or somebody was getting radiation, such-and-such’s mother was undergoing chemo treatments. I don’t know near enough about these things to make any decisions on it.”

He realized he couldn’t be there next to them, but he perhaps he wasn’t completely helpless. He reasoned that Sarah had been carrying the weight of their household and now Hailey’s sickness entirely on her own. At that moment, with her husband away at war, life was simply too heavy for her to carry alone. She needed him to share the burden and lighten her load. Stephen knew that he couldn’t hold his little girl but maybe his voice could hold Sarah in a way that gave her encouragement to be strong for Hailey.

Sarah continued, “They say that because of where the tumor is, if it is cancerous then they’ll likely need to do a spinal tap and possibly… probably, eventually need to do surgery.”

“When?”

“The timing is up to us after the first round of chemo but if they want to isolate the spot on her spine so the sooner the better. They’re worried about it spreading higher to where it could affect her brain.” Sarah’s voice was calm but weak, controlled but shattered.

The calmness in her voice told him that she was beginning her own recovery from the stalemate of their argument. She had probably had experience managing several difficult conversations with Hailey recently, and now she was appeasing Stephen with a same soothing voice she had used with their daughter. Stephen was okay with that. He knew his wife could be strong but he worried about the toll it would take on her.

He wanted to tell Sarah she was doing all the right things. As much as he’d like to fix this there really wasn’t anything different that he could do. He truly shared her frustration of not knowing just how sick their daughter was. He wanted to tell Sarah that her comfort to Hailey made him love her even more; how he longed to blanket his arms around her and smell the sweet scent of her hair one more time. He wanted to tell her anything and everything he could to encourage her but instead, he had done the opposite.

Guilt washed him as he considered the way he had spoken to her just moments before and he questioned whether additional words would bear any weight; perhaps he had already ruined the opportunity to be the supporting husband. While it was beneficial to keep his emotions guarded and in check, he felt a hardening that numbed him and prevented him from garnering the strength to speak his true thoughts to Sarah. He knew what he wanted to say but he didn’t know where to start or how to tell her what he was feeling. The words floated around his head but at that moment nothing he did seemed to set them free. Other than the roar of the engine from the truck ahead of them, the air was painfully quiet. The humvee’s silence continued, partially out of embarrassment but mostly out of respect for their squad leader who was obviously having a hard phone call with home.

Stephen knew his wife was barely holding on. While he was in the desert alongside friends making the best of an awful situation, she was at home managing a hellish situation that only got worse with each revelation. Holding the phone in silence, he was still unsure of what to say about the impossible situation they had been pulled into. He tried to clear his throat but struggled to speak.

“Alright, please hear me. We’re going to get through this.” Stephen knew his voice lacked the confidence necessary to convince even himself, much less Sarah. He searched for words to reassure her. In the drift of his ponderous moment he vaguely took note that their portion of the convoy had gone around the road’s bend and was reaching the oddly-placed rusted out car he had seen in the distance moments before. As the truck ahead of them led the way, Tomlison began moving the humvee towards the center of the road preparing to pass the disabled vehicle.

“Okay, thank you.” Sarah responded more out of duty than belief.

“When I get back to the unit this evening I’m going to stop by and have a conversation with the CO. I’ll look into leave options and see if…”

There was no warning to the brilliant flash of light erupting from the tightest corner of his peripheral. Stephen’s mouth did not even attempt to speak the next word, every synapses in his brain fixated on the increasing radiance which began to engulf his total vision. The prolonged calm lingered among milliseconds. His focus on the burst was brutally interrupted by a massive clap of thunder. The shockwave struck their humvee as though it were a favored child’s toy truck being kicked by a jealous and disgruntled sibling. The force carelessly flipped the vehicle over itself, its unfortunate passengers the recipients of the crude bomb’s deadly tantrum.

Mile 6

Nothing more than pure reflex caused Stephen to clench his fist. Because of it, he was able to maintain his grip on the humvee’s passenger side guardrail. He subconsciously made an attempt to grab it with the other hand. When he did, the somersaulting vehicle caused the phone to jump from his grasp and levitate in front of his eyes. His reaching hand missed the guardrail, and grasped nothing but empty air. As the humvee spun around, time in the vehicle’s cabin seemed to slow down until the sheer weight resisted a further topple, settling upright but uneven in the middle of the road. Stephen watched the panning view through the passenger window in horror. The deuce-and-a-half truck had been lifted into the air beneath a wave of sequential explosions as if it were sand being displaced by the crashing surf. Dirt slammed the humvee with the force of a hurricane and struck his view, cracking the glass. In a strange pause, Stephen stared at the steady cracks. The backdrop was a drab brown which he could no longer see through. In the stillness of the momentary millisecond, his own reflection caught his dazed attention in the shattered haze.

His jumbled mind told his face to respond to the reflection with a smile but before the signal could reach his facial muscles the brunt impact of the vehicle’s halted connection to the paved road sent a compression through his own body that forced Stephen’s head uncontrollably into his own lap, smacking his Kevlar helmet into his vulnerable knees. The humvee stopped moving, and Stephen looked through the cracked windshield to see the truck had been upended onto the shoulder on the complete opposite side of the road. All around him Stephen could hear dull droning like he was sitting in the window seat just over the wings of a jet airplane. Fighting off the blur in his head and a wave of nausea, he began to hear a faint yet rapid cracking sound. Unconsciously, uncontrollable breathing ballooned his cheeks while his heart rapidly drummed through his chest. He blinked hard and focused on the floorboard. In a lucid moment which lasted something less than a second he was able to isolate the cracking noise and recognized the distinct discharge of an AK-47 automatic rifle. The brief clarity was pushed out of his head by a steady ringing in his ears which grew increasingly louder. Stephen took a deep breath and looked out the window to see the truck was lying on its side. Its weatherproof tarp roof lay torn and partially exposed to the horizon; offering no protection to the injured soldiers who had been knocked around when the massive cargo truck flipped across the road. Stephen was groggy and didn’t have his bearings. His head was in a disorienting fog while more smoke seemed to appear with every heartbeat; a heartbeat that pounded like a drum inside his head. It seemed to take forever for him to focus long enough to grab the handle of the humvee’s door and open it. With his other hand, he reached for his assault rifle and pulled it from the humvee’s mounting clip. From the wide open door, he jumped out of the vehicle but failed to control his landing and immediately fell down on all fours. Stephen couldn’t shake the ringing in his head as it disrupted his senses. He still heard the gunfire and a few explosions in what seemed to be the far-off distance. Trying to focus on something which could closely represent an ounce of equilibrium, Stephen yelled back into the humvee with an order for anyone who could hear him to start shooting, “Covering-Fire!”

He tried to move forward but an odd pain pulled all of his attention toward his palms. Searing pain ripped through his hands as the consuming asphalt was beginning to burn him. He realized that his fingers were singed and he quickly dropped his rifle and recoiled his hands to his chest. He looked at the ground and had to blink before accepting that the road was almost entirely covered with a lava flow of molten wreckage. Dozens of fires jumped around the road giving it the appearance of a smoldering fire rising from beneath, threatening to consume the entire road at any second.

Suddenly, the open door of the humvee made a high-pitched plucking noise. It sounded like someone had taken a large can off a grocery store shelf and smashed it into the ground. Something whizzed by his ear, and Stephen quickly realized he was being shot at. Ignoring the smoldering ground which was painful to every touch, he snatched the rifle and darted to the rear of the humvee by executing a horribly controlled fall.

Tomlison and Chelp were already there. They were clearly disoriented but they were alive and both had their rifles. “Where’s Hooper?” Stephen yelled inches from their faces.

“What? What did you say?” Chelp held his ear and yelled back in confusion, making it apparent that any attempt to verbally communicate with him would be hopeless for the moment.

Tomlison was only a fraction more with it. “I don’t know? I didn’t see before I got out.”

Stephen heard the humvee taking shots more frequently now. He couldn’t tell if there was more shooting directed at them or if his hearing was beginning to recover. Stephen’s throat was dry and the burning air singed his lungs as he took breaths and began shouting to his two squad mates, “We’ve gotta get over there and cover the guys in the truck. Get to the other side of the humvee, draw fire. Can you hear me?” He wasn’t entirely reassured by the dazed look on his men’s faces. “Guys! Cover my ass!”

He watched Tomlison rise and quickly find a target. The corporal began firing three round bursts into a small bath house that appeared to be the source of the insurgent’s protection. With two or three buildings behind the bath house there was plenty of opportunity for cover. But the people shooting at them didn’t appear to be using the bath house as cover to escape. If anything, those houses were a source for reinforcements. It wasn’t a hit-and-run operation like they had heard of with other convoys. Stephen realized these insurgents had no intention of leaving. They were there to wipe out anyone unfortunate enough to be on this road wearing an American flag on their shoulder. Chelp, not needing words to understand what was going on, flipped his rifle to full-auto, rose on the other side of the humvee and proceeded to deliver an entire magazine’s worth of covering fire.

Stephen sprinted away from the humvee into the flames of the open road. Gunfire continued to reign down from the bath house as bullets riddled the back of the truck even after Stephen slid behind it. Using the cover of the truck’s broken tailgate he leaned forward and prepared to return fire.

Stephen leaned towards the humvee to yell back at whichever of his men might be engaged but before he could get a word out a heavy volley of gunfire erupted. He looked over and saw a soldier emerging from the exposed side of the truck’s wheel base. The man was bleeding from the ears and nose and walking upright. The soldier casually walked across the smoldering road as if he were deep in thought over an afternoon stroll and could not bother to be disturbed with the purposes of gunfire aimed towards him.

Realizing the soldier was concussed and deep in shock; Stephen scrambled to his feet, lunged toward the man and grabbed him by an outstretched but limp arm. He yanked the man back and ran him to the cover of the truck’s wheel base. Whether it was the soldier or Stephen briefly exposing himself, they successfully caught more of the insurgent’s attention. Another barrage of bullets was focused on Stephen’s position and what was left of the truck’s smoldering underbelly. Nevertheless, the wrecked truck served as a ricochet point for bullets narrowly missing their target.

Carefully, yet urgently placing the dazed soldier into a seated position behind cover and assuring himself that the man didn’t have the strength or wherewithal to get up and wonder off, Stephen crawled back to the edge of the truck and tried to see where the enemy fire was originating from. He took a deep breath to clear his throat and prepared to make another attempt to call out to his men. In somewhat of a counter-instinct, Stephen turned his eyes towards the bathhouse. It was then that he saw him. Their eyes connected in surprise, as if both had simultaneously called out to one another. In the millisecond which followed, Stephen saw the oddest peculiarities about the man. The hair on his head was dark and unkempt. Sideburns were long and straggly. His beard, dark as well, was thin and short. Youth. Stephen could see the scar upon the man’s forehead met no wrinkles. The man couldn’t be out of his twenties. Stephen saw the fear and confusion in the man’s eyes as their stare appeared to transgress the battlefield with a moment of shared humanity. But it was short-lived. Stephen could see the very moment that the man’s eyes abandoned youthful anxiety and overwhelmed with rage.

Their eyes remained locked and Stephen could see wrinkles appearing across the man’s forehead as his nose scrunched in response to the primal yell he released while raising his rifle. Seeing the barrel of the rifle aimed directly at him, Stephen became acutely aware that this was the moment he would be shot and this was the man who would do it.

Never losing sight of the man’s murderous gaze, the only phrase that could come to Stephen’s mind was to repeat his earlier order of, “Covering Fire.” But he didn’t even get the first syllable out. Stephen’s voice was instantly drowned out. From atop his squad’s humvee came a thunder that absorbed every other sound from the battleground. Hooper had regained consciousness and announced his return with a rapid delivery of instant destruction courtesy of the humvee’s mounted .50 caliber machine gun. The walls of the bath house were shredded like BBs ripping through a Styrofoam cup. Some insurgents tried running, but now return fire was also being delivered from the other convoy vehicles that had pulled up and taken overlapping firing position to cut off the enemy’s retreat.

It was over in less than a minute. The tip of Hooper’s machine gun glowed with a red amber and smoke simmered off the end of the muzzle. Stephen looked to the spot where the young man had been just a moment before. The carnage around that area of the bath house told Stephen why he was the one still standing. Short, quick breaths began to crowd his breathing.

Whew, too close. Sarah almost got a visit from the chaplain. Wait… Sarah… Sarah, the phone!

Stephen looked up in a forceful breath and failing to confirm an all-clear, he sprinted across the still smoldering asphalt and grabbed the phone off the floor of the humvee. “Sarah? Sarah?” There was no response from the other end. The sensitive connection had been severed at the moment of the initial blast. Stephen frantically pressed buttons in an attempt to reconnect Sarah but there was no signal. The highly sophisticated communication device lay as dormant in his hand as a brick. Stephen felt the bulk of hard plastic cut into his palm as the worthless box refused to even give him the satisfaction of cracking under the pressure of his tightening grip.

Sarah held onto her phone with both hands in the sheer hope of hearing something, anything. She was desperate for any sound indicating a hint of the connection or even the possibility of her husband’s voice once more, but even a dial tone would have given her enough relief to start breathing again. From the depths of her soul she dared to beg God to let her hear Stephen say something. She called out to Stephen with a broken whimper. Her lips quivered but the voice which emerged sounded almost calm and expectant. She pushed away more thoughts than she could hold and stared at the phone, afraid to let it go. Expectancy gave way to anxiety and she was forced to recognize the crushing disconnected sound of the failed line.

It would be three excruciating days before Sarah would learn that Stephen had not been killed on that Iraqi highway. Seventy-two tortured hours of watching dramatic news reports of a car bomb used to ambush an Army convoy on that hellish desert road. She endured the horrific waiting as the names of soldiers killed in the ambush were slowly released so as to respectfully give time for their families to be notified. She covered miles pacing back and forth within her living room. Sarah found it was a constant struggle to resist looking towards the window. But if she didn’t look then she wouldn’t have to acknowledge the fact that she was, in fact, anticipating the arrival of a casualty notification officer who would deliver those dreaded words, “The Secretary of the army regrets to inform you…” Her mind sank into dark pools of possibility and she repeatedly drowned in thoughts of helplessness, rage and dread. Sarah battled through the agony of each of those days, struggling to maintain her composure by the hour and losing herself with each passing minute; the entire time, not knowing whether she could keep it together for one more second.

Mile 7

The approval for Stephen’s emergency leave to return home and join Sarah and Hailey for her immediate chemotherapy treatments had been more than greatly appreciated by the Lantz family. Stephen’s commanding officer had coordinated with a 3-star general in order to prioritize the family crisis at home. It took an extra time to sort out the chaos from the convoy bombing but once approved, Stephen found himself unceremoniously returning stateside. He was able to be there to hold Sarah’s hand when they talked with the doctors about the plan for three years of treatments and the details of how each phase would fight their daughter’s cancer. He was also there to comfort Hailey through the pains and fears of her new hospital surroundings. But he was both thankful and horrified two days after arriving when he sat next to Sarah while Hailey underwent a bone marrow biopsy.

Scared and embracing both hands, they watched their helpless child’s resting face as Hailey lay lethargic in the hospital bed while doctors drained fluid from her rear hipbone. The normally quick procedure had taken longer with Hailey’s lack of cooperation. In the end, the doctor decided on a local anesthetic to calm the overly anxious three year old.

She seemed to finally relax and even fall asleep when the doctor began his work. A few minutes into the procedure and without warning, Hailey’s eyes thrust open and revealed a fully conscience and terrified stare at Stephen and Sarah.

Stephen froze; his mind locked between what to do and what to say. He abruptly announced to the entire room, “She’s awake!”

When the doctor leaned over and saw Hailey’s open eyes, he unconsciously revealed his own surprise. His eyes widened behind the thick-rimmed glasses which drove anxiety into the already nervous parents.

“Daddy?” Hailey’s body lay still but her cries pierced Stephen.

Unaware of the increasing pressure his grasp applied to Sarah’s hand he tried to respond. “Hailey, sweetheart, I’m right here. Daddy’s right here.”

Sarah leaned forward to make sure her daughter could see her, “Honey, we’re right here next to you. It’s going to be just fine,” though her voice trembled and the look on Sarah’s face said just the opposite.

The doctor said something to the nurse and then spoke from the opposite side of Hailey’s body with a voice muffled by the surgical mask. “Mom and Dad, it’s okay. She’s not feeling anything right now.”

Behind her own thin white facial mask, the nurse spoke back in a calm and controlled voice, “Doctor, I’ll need more time to prep her if we’re going to give her something more than a local.”

Fighting off the anesthetic, sensory nerves slowly began to wake throughout Hailey’s body. Chills tingled her skin in random places and her heart rate accelerated from a complicated mixture of mild anesthesia and terror-induced adrenaline. With the exception of the increasing rhythmic expansion of her lungs, her body lay entirely still. Without blinking, small tears began to swell in her eyes. “Daddy, I’m scared. I’m scared.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Mommy and Daddy are right here. The doctor said it’s going to be okay.” Stephen’s own heart raced while his inability to take Hailey and hold her in his arms left him crushed as if he were watching his daughter drown and could not even extend a hand to her.

Sarah covered her mouth to hide her panicking face as Hailey started moving her eyes far to the side as if trying to see what was happening behind her.

The doctor’s voice rose with purpose from behind Hailey’s body. “I’m already drawing. We’re too far in the procedure to stop. I’m going to press on and finish. I just need a couple more minutes. Dad, keep her calm and make sure she stays absolutely still.”

Flushed, Stephen responded to the doctor’s instruction. With quivering lips he called out to the child he had once tenderly held by nothing more than his two palms, “Hailey, sweetie, its okay. Just look here at Daddy. I’m right here. Look at me sweetheart. Please, look at me.”

The nurse reached past the crouching doctor and held Hailey’s legs and hip in place as a preventative measure against the child’s possible wiggling. She extended her other hand out and with extended fingers to gently touch the top of Hailey’s head in a sweet moment of tenderness combined with carefulness not to wake any more of the toddler’s slumbering nerves.

The Lantz home was not the homecoming Stephen had hoped for. While deployed, he took periodic journeys through a mental list of casual pleasures and relaxing activities he intended to do once he returned stateside. But the process of coming home two months before his unit and walking into a family crisis, proved harder than any return he had considered. Challenging enough were the logistical messes his departure had caused. Stephen learned quickly that being outside of the Army’s standard operating procedures invites delays, back-tracking and mistakes which only serve to annoy the already short-fused logistical officers who already had their hands full managing the massive deployment rotations. Technically, he was still activated for duty and as such he had a full-time job with the Army. Unfortunately, his unit was still in the desert. But an understanding staff officer made it possible for Stephen to work out of another somewhat nearby National Guard unit. Generously, the work he was assigned to was spending time supporting the family crisis while only periodically going by his assigned commander’s office to be accounted for. The difficulty was that it absurdly meant having to drive two hours each way just to check in with the unit every third day. It took some extra patience but he eventually learned to appreciate the runaround as a worthwhile trade-off for being by Hailey’s side.

But at home, things seemed less manageable than the war zone he had just left. Her doctors took the approach of treating Hailey’s body with a 30-day bombardment which included blood transfusions and a weekly routine of chemotherapy through a port. Every procedure terrorized Stephen and Sarah with the constant threat of side effects. There was always the risk in each procedure as nearly all the waivers they had to sign listed “potential for heart attack or stroke” written beside it. But even when an all-clear would eventually be sounded, they would still have the dread of living with the risks of long term impacts like learning disabilities or infertility could be waiting in the wind.

Anxiety reigned among them and stress levels never came off peak levels. Because civilian reintegration back to normal everyday life had been practically non-existent for Stephen, his patience level still bore the conditioning of a combat zone. There was a constant power struggle between he and Sarah as each subconsciously grasped opportunities to control situations. Stephen’s warrior mentality mixed together with the take-charge behavior Sarah had been forced to adopt during his absence constantly placed them on a collision path. It started with each grabbing for car keys on the way out the door but after a couple of weeks they hardly made any attempt to stop talking over each other. When Hailey’s hair began to fall out during the second month of treatment, Sarah’s emotional tank ran dry. By the third month of treatment, the last reserves of Sarah’s patience fell to the floor alongside their daughter’s dying blonde locks of hair.

Hailey’s immune system responded better during the Consolidation Phase of her treatment. This was the 120-day period which put her small body through an immense struggle and tested everyone’s limits. At this stage, she was receiving a spinal tap every other week and her chemo treatments delivered increased dosages. The heavy cycle of steroids introduced the phrase, “roid rage” to an already tense Lantz household. Painful joints, bloating, temper-tantrums and her non-stop hunger left Stephen and Sarah with little mental capacity to handle necessary home repairs or the other liabilities of life such as rising bills and periodic car trouble. With no other choice but to press forward, they went through the motions as a unified couple. But the end of each day left little for one another as every issue was magnified and compounded a wedge which formed stronger and deeper between them.

Rebecca saw the numbness which stagnated over the Lantz home life and would often step in to pick up the pieces behind a wrecked day. She cared for Hailey as only a grandmother could and loved Sarah like she was her own daughter. Rebecca’s faith provided her with an unwavering strength, and it was never more apparent to Stephen then the way her calming personality could instantly ease the tensions in a room.

He didn’t share his mother’s religious beliefs but there was no denying that her arrivals were like slowly releasing the air out of a balloon that everyone had expected to pop. Both Stephen and Sarah found themselves leaning on her for more than just caring for Hailey. Rebecca was particularly skilled at handling tantrums regardless of the complainer’s age, and her loving encouragement never showed a hint of frustration or judgment. When her observant eye saw the pressure building, she would push Stephen and Sarah to let her watch Hailey while they grabbed dinner or coffee together. But Rebecca’s loving intension to support their marriage required more than just their acceptance. It wasn’t long before date nights just became a time to argue with greater discretion. Soon babysitting offers by Rebecca were rejected and time together fell off Stephen and Sara’s calendar completely.

They spent the next twenty-two months living in fear. The periodic treatments left Hailey with no immune system to speak of and it forced the Lantzes to build a virtual bubble around her world. They rushed to an Army hospital each time Hailey expressed the slightest of pains. In time, chemo doses were lowered, checkups moved to a periodic schedule and the only procedures she underwent were the monthly finger pricks to test blood levels. Right around Hailey’s 5th birthday, with great hesitation and hopefulness, Stephen and Sarah greeted the word remission into their household.

“Again?” Sarah’s commanding use of the single word had somehow undone and discredited every justification Stephen had been prepared to use in conveying his news of another deployment.

“There’s still a war going on, Sarah.” Stephen said condescendingly.

“Well, how long will you have to go for?” She asked in a way which didn’t really seem like a question.

“Rumor has it that it’ll be for about nine months or so.”

“You don’t know?” Sarah asked impatiently.

“I haven’t gotten final orders yet. What do you want me to do?” He rebutted.

“Hailey’s only got four months of chemo left.

“She’s just finishing up the treatment plan. Doctor said there’s a chance they may not even do all of them.”

Sarah was undeterred in her persistence, “Can’t you wait until we’re at least past this?”

“Last time I checked, the Army doesn’t exactly ask for my opinion when they come up with the timing for sending out troops to go off and battle terrorist in the Middle East, Sarah.” Stephen said defensively.

“Obviously, I know that Stephen. I’m just asking if you can get some sort of deferment or something like you got when you came home before.”

Stephen simply didn’t have the patience to let his wife think he could argue with the orders he had received. “It doesn’t work that way. It was rare for me to get that privilege in the first place. If anything, because I came back early I need to be one of the first out there for this rotation. There’s a limit to Army compassion and I don’t want to push it.”

Sarah knew orders were undisputable but she wasn’t ready to give in yet, “What do I do if Hailey gets of those massive bruises again? How am I supposed to handle that?”

“Just schedule a drop-in appointment with Dr. Navarro. She said we could come by anytime. She’ll tell you what needs to be done. It’s what she gets paid to do. Let her do her job.” Stephen’s tone was irritated at the asking about something the hematologist had already addressed.

“And what if it comes back?”

“She’s in remission.” Stephen responded curtly.

“Maybe, but that’s not a guarantee. We both know she’s not in the clear for another three years.”

“What do you want me to say? That she won’t get sick again? Believe me; it kills me every day just thinking about the possibility but what am I going to do. We have to live with this and part of living with this means that I still have to go when the Army tells me to go; when and where!”

Sarah turned to peer down the hallway. Her clenched hand came up to meet her mouth as if to rest but the gritted teeth gave evidence to her anger and exasperation with Stephen. “Is it going to be like this when you get back?” she asked.

“What, with deployments? Come on, Sarah. You know this is how these things work. The Guard activations are temporary. I don’t have to go very often. It’s not like I’m doing back-to-back tours like a lot of those guys out there. Besides, Iraq and Afghanistan can’t last too much longer. They’ll iron this all out soon.” Stephen’s mind rolled through the options he had recently been considering to himself and chose to test the waters with his wife. “Also, I might be able to do better if I stay on active duty full time when I get back. The transfer is pretty simple and the time I’ve spent on these deployments would help a lot with rank.”

Sarah’s eyes darted accusingly toward her husband. She could tell his comment wasn’t a flippant thought and that the idea of leaving the National Guard and joining the Army as an active duty soldier was something he had already thought to. She took a second to breathe deeply in order to control her consternation, “Are you serious? What about your job with McDowell?”

“McDowell has been great but I think I could…”

Ignoring his response Sarah interjected, “Going active duty is no small thing. Moves, more deployments, it’s a lot more than weekends and periodic activations. Don’t you think this is something we should talk about first?’”

“Well, yeah. I mean, of course we will.” Stephen sensed her distress and decided to not broach the topic any further, “But we don’t have to talk about it for a while. Definitely not before I get back from this deployment.”

“Will we talk about it?” Sarah asked with a thinly veiled bitterness.

“I just said we would.”

The conversation paused in a stalemate for several prolonged seconds before Sarah, absorbed by an awareness of the challenges she was going to face in the months to come, finally yielded to the discomfort of silence. “You never answered me.”

“What?” Stephen grunted.

Her voice was nearly a whisper, “Is it going to be like this when you get back?”

I just told you, the Army…”

“I’m not talking about the Army.” Sarah’s interruption was demanding, “Is our family going to be like this when you get back?”

“Well, Hailey’s going to be a lot stronger once she gets off all these meds.”

“I meant you and me.” Her voice trailed off, not so much defeated as simply not finding the argument worth continuing.

Stephen paused and caught his wife’s questioning look. The fullness of their silence stagnated the conversation more than before. Dropping eye contact with her, Stephen reluctantly answered, “I don’t know, Sarah. I just don’t know.”

Stephen knew the strain on his marriage could hardly reach across their house, much less the other side of the world. Saying goodbye to Hailey was devastating even with her cancer in remission, but leaving Sarah was noticeably easier. It wasn’t a future he was too excited to consider and he looked forward to the less complicated life of the combat zone. Perhaps Mayweather wasn’t so crazy after all.

“Way to go! You’re so awesome! You guys are heroes!” The supportive words came from a lady who was extraordinarily alert for someone standing alongside a curb in her robe and slippers cheering on the passing marathon runners. She had a two handed grip tightly wrapped around a steaming cup as if it were there for medicinal purposes. Unaccustomed to feeding off the praise of others, Stephen was surprised at how the lady’s encouragement snapped his mind back to the race he was in the middle of running. He smiled at her and felt an added lift spring from his next step.

Stephen had been praised by crowds before. With the return from each deployment he and his fellow service members had been thanked so many times it caused him a discomfort. The one he felt the greatest discomfort with was being called a “hero.” It wasn’t that he opposed someone linking the term “hero” to a service member. To him, nothing could be more true. He just didn’t agree with the label being linked to him. In Iraq, he had done his duty. It was something he had voluntarily committed to doing long before he was asked by his country to make wartime sacrifices. He didn’t feel it was a matter of heroics. It was a responsibility and following through with the promises he had made. The compassionate citizens of a grateful nation, in their determination to undo the sins of a prior generation’s disdain for returning troops, had overwhelmed their brave warriors with an abundance of heartfelt and genuine praise. It was an embrace that he, like many who returned with tattered uniforms or minds stolen by a preoccupation with the ones who didn’t return, had struggled to accept. The status of hero became a burden he was certain he could not live up to.

Nevertheless, the cheers of the early morning well-wishers along the roadside seemed different. The praise was not born from the mix of personal emotions determined to elevate those willing to do what others wouldn’t, but instead he felt the encouragement came from an appreciation. This was an appreciation for a commitment of training and effort towards a goal which he was in the process of bringing to a completion. The crowd continued to applaud runners as he passed by. Stephen took in every positive word he could. Their words reached him deeply and before long he felt their words were accompanied with a different type of expectation. They were words that commanded one foot to continually be placed in front of the other. The cheers evolved into a rhythmic cadence as if his former drill sergeant were steadily prodding him along, though with much more encouraging words than he ever remembered his drill sergeant using.

Stephen received their optimistic spirit despite his own frustrations with how the race had begun. Their cheers reminded him that he had made a choice to cross that starting line and it was a decision he intended to fulfill. He charged himself forward, declaring with each step that there was no way he was going to let this crowd down. It wasn’t long before he caught himself making eye contact with people in the crowd in a self-serving hope to solicit motivation toward him personally. In most cases it worked, and he returned their inspiration with a wave and a smile to cover his guilt of having being so dependent on their generosity. He felt proud to be there, inspired by the applause. He was motivated.

It quickly became evident to Stephen that the crowd had a personality of its own. It was one thing to get up at a ridiculous hour before the stars had even faded. It was an entirely different thing to get dressed, endure the cold weather and stand for several hours cheering for people you’ve never met and furthermore, would likely never see again. He was impressed by the crowd’s commitment and touched with gratitude for the adrenaline boost he was receiving. No longer feeling the insecurity of a rookie runner, he obligated himself to return their praise with thumbs up and a heartfelt, “Thank you for coming out this morning.” Touched with an unfamiliar twinge of euphoria, Stephen was feeling very much like the ambassador of running.

Unbeknownst to Stephen, the gel pack was working its magic and replenishing his carbohydrate stores. The gel, having made its way through his digestive system, sent a rush of random endorphins coursing through his body. For the first time he could genuinely admit to himself that he was actually enjoying the run. He had spent so much of his race in silent sarcasm over the early part of the morning that he hadn’t yet let himself realize the joy of the journey. He drank the crowd’s encouragement and savored every drop, straightening his back and lengthening his stride. The thrust of his arms had a renewed swagger to them. His heart beat stronger and his legs became lighter with each lift. Warmth filled him and he began to stretch his stride even farther. Without regard to his own speed, he began weaving past other runners, sidestepping and plotting his path two and three bodies in front of him before making his advance. As his pace continued to increase he kept a close proximity to the far right hand side of the course where he could repeatedly drink from the invigorating well of assurance the crowd so graciously served up.

Almost as suddenly as they had appeared, the sideline crowd thinned out. Stephen looked ahead and saw a long, inclining straight away as concrete seemed to continuously rise above the brightening horizon. Instead of a crowded field, he observed the sparse files of runners as they approached the incline at varying paces. He glanced back to see the fading crowd with their distant but unending cheers. He wanted to stop and tell them how much he appreciated them. He considered the idea of hopping onto a street bench and making a public announcement. “Thank you all for coming out today. We really appreciate your support and sacrificial efforts. You’ve all been great. And while you may want to stay here to cheer on the other runners, have your breakfast and coffee or possibly even be tempted to go home and tuck yourselves back into bed, we ask that you instead get in your cars and drive alongside to continue your unceasing praise for the remainder of the race!” He chuckled to himself at his entertaining idea and delivered his own self-assurance at realizing how good he felt and what a good run he was going to have.

The giant bulb in the sky had risen above the horizon and effortlessly broke the last ounce of will in the morning’s briskness. Clouds which previously held dominance now crumbled into smaller formations, accepting without dispute their singular purpose of drifting towards an inevitable fade. The sea of bodies shifting among the road compelled him to forego his speech and instead push forward to the upcoming challenge with a moderately suppressed smile. The rising peak of the road’s overpass before him seemed no threat to the strength and speed surging from each step of his elongated stride. Glycogen from the gel packet made its way into Stephen’s muscles and propelled renewed strength in his legs which powered him up the road’s prolonged incline. Each time his feet hit the ground another charge of energy pulsed through his body and caused the fibers of his leg muscles to demand more and more oxygen to keep up with his rising pace. Every breath brought vigor and durability to his laboring lungs. Yes, the ambassador was feeling good, really good.

He looked ahead beyond the overpass to see the reveal of office buildings. It was strange to him how buildings in a distance, pressed against the horizon seemed to have a similarity to them regardless of where in the world they had been erected. He was comforted by the fact that the buildings he ran toward were fully intact and free of crumbling debris as he had seen in the desert years before. He forgot the road and let his mind drift again, releasing all of the cares of the moment, which including any concern for the lactic acid steadily building within his legs.

Mile 8

Stephen’s fire team made its way around the city’s perimeter buildings. Their unit had been called in to provide support for Operation Phantom Fury, the battle which had begun just a week before to take back the city of Fallujah from insurgents who had entered and oppressed the city. It was Stephen’s second trip to Fallujah, though only the first time he had actually stepped foot in the dense city. This time there was no daydreaming about visiting the nearby lake or enjoying the cool breeze. The trip into the city had been a horribly tense ride as their convoy stopped several times in order to respond to the several improvised explosive devises left by insurgents alongside nearly every road. When they finally reached the city, the best he could do was to see past the remnants of buildings which had been reduced to rubble. He tried to breathe without choking on the ash still floating above the smoldering city.

The violence against American forces had escalated in Fallujah. The Marines had taken over local operations in an attempt to quell the growing anger from the more than 300,000 residents in the city along the Euphrates River. Insurgents from around the region saw the city as a stronghold and turned the population against their occupiers. After only a couple of months of American management, things began to really fall apart. Somehow it was decided that the local politicians could do a better job of discouraging the insurgent influence. Marines moved out in April and set up an extended perimeter to prevent new insurgents from entering. The plan failed miserably. Fallujah, also known as “The City of Mosques,” had over 200 mosques that were located throughout every community within the city. A plethora of devotees, combined with blatant anti-Americanism from nearly every spiritual leader who had a flock, made the city a battleground for influence. The seven-month period without any American presence gave insurgents the freedom to gain support and recruit throughout the city’s mosques. They not only brought external reinforcements and weapons but they also amassed thousands of volunteers to their cause. By the time November came around, the foreign insurgency had complete control of the city.

The battle to wrangle the city back under coalition control had been a difficult one. Those among the insurgency were well-prepared for an American offensive and they knew how to convert the city into a giant labyrinth with traps and obstructions at nearly every turn. They even went to the trouble of repositioning stolen concrete barriers to limit the movement of tanks and armored vehicles. Those imbedded fighters had not been the locally converted farmer turned soldier, but instead, they were committed extremists who had been battle hardened from multiple wars in the region. Even worse, they were well trained and well supplied by Iran so its regime could wage a proxy war against the “American infidel.” Major hostilities ended with its inevitable conclusion; better training, better equipment, better leadership and an overall better battle plan won out. This along with the fact that America upheld its reputation for showing up to knife fight with a bazooka. In Fallujah, that translated to the US forces bringing nearly four times the number of experienced warfighters than the insurgents had. An American victory was a foregone conclusion even before Navy SEALS infiltrated the city and turned out the lights.

“Cleaning up pockets of resistance” was the politician’s way of saying America had won so the media could move on and shift their efforts back to educating the stateside public about the latest celebrity breakup. To Stephen’s squad, who entering the city just a couple of days after the main force achieved its primary objective at Highway 10 in the center of the city, it meant the part-time resistance fighters had either given up or been killed. Now it was time to flush out the hard-core fighters left behind by the initial strike force’s breakneck pace to retake the city. Those insurgents who dug in and remained were true believers in their cause. They were among those who were ready to die and just wanted to take out as many Americans as they could in the process. It wasn’t clean up. It was nothing less than full-throttled urban warfare.

Stephen’s lead fire team moved ahead in a single column. Since Rodriguez had the point position he was the first to emerge. He sprinted from his area of cover across an open road and disappearing behind a large pile of rubble. When his rifle emerged from behind a mass of rocks, Waters and Stephen simultaneously dipped the muzzles of their rifles and made a quick but cautious pursuit. Dropping behind the rubble, Stephen joined Rodriguez in using telescopic scope of his M4 carbine short barrel rifle to scan the broken out windows of nearby buildings. They searched for any movement, especially the ever faint shimmer of the sun reflecting off the lens of a sniper’s scope. Feeling only a moment’s comfort, he nodded to Chelp on the other side of the road.

“That’s us,” Chelp whispered to the remaining team. He gripped the two ammo belts which were harnessed over his shoulder and slapped Hooper on the helmet as he leapt past him. Hooper rose to his knees, collapsed the tripod to the base of his weapon and took off in a crouched run just behind Chelp. Once they were on the other side, Hilton and Tomlison left their cover and sprinted across to join them.

Stephen looked at his battle-tested team. The last two days had taken them through more than a dozen of these buildings. When the initial strike force came through they had been on the hunt for enemy fighters. They had moved past buildings which didn’t show signs of an enemy presence. Unfortunately, that left Stephen’s unit with the responsibility of cleaning several houses rigged with explosives but vacant of fighters. The work was slow moving, with most buildings locked down and never knowing when a door was wired to explode on contact or an insurgent hold-out waiting on the other side for his moment of suicide by glorious jihad. Stephen could only imagine the death trap that the initial strike force must have walked in to.

Twice they engaged the enemy. The first time Stephen’s team was a bit unnerved and had presented what he later described as an overabundance of fire. The team had moved into an open clearing behind a building that actually turned out to be a cafe which had lost its rear wall to artillery shelling. It was completely accidental when his squad stumbled upon the young sniper sprawled out on a cafe table peering for unsuspecting soldiers. The sniper didn’t even get a chance to aim his single shot bolt-action rifle in the direction of the team. Stephen estimated that each man on his team had unloaded half their magazines at the sniper. While it was a justifiable kill, Stephen wondered how many of those shots were the result of months of anger and anxiety being expressed through itchy trigger fingers.

The second contact with the enemy also came during a building clearing. They were in the process of entering what looked to be a school cafeteria. An insurgent on the second floor was either inexperienced, impatient or just plain scared out of his mind. He tipped off his men’s concealed location by firing an errant round with no target in sight. Had that discharge come half a minute later, Stephen’s team would have been left stuck in the large open cafeteria facing a heavily armed enemy who had positioned themselves in a well covered and elevated defensive position. It was excellent planning and the cafeteria was staged to become an effective kill box. The insurgents were not lacking in experienced planners familiar with guerrilla tactics. But they did have a significant shortage of discipline. So instead, Stephen reversed his team out the same door they had entered and called for an artillery strike. The building was little more than pea gravel within minutes.

Those experiences had gotten out the jitters and sharpened the team’s senses. By this third day, their movements reflected the precision of a fine point drill bit driving to its objective without obstruction. They were focused and all business. They entered rooms with a dominating presence, moving in smooth controlled pairs; never in a hurry and recharging ammunition every time they had a breather. The awareness Stephen was beginning to see in his men’s eyes gave him a shot of courage spiked with adrenaline.

Stephen observed the chain fence that ran alongside the buildings. Maps were close to useless as the fighting had left most landmarks unrecognizable and streets provided new access ways that didn’t even exist before mortar rounds, rocket-propelled grenades and tank divisions pounded them. On the other side of the fence was a train station which separated the city from miles of sandy nothingness. Aerial intelligence indicated insurgents had been using the train routes as cover to move supplies and reinforcements into the city. The fence separating the train tracks from the main city provided circumstantial evidence as it had several purposeful holes cut into it. The detail of what was done or how it occurred was beyond Stephen’s pay grade and not something important to him at the moment. His job was to lead his team and clear the three buildings directly perpendicular to the train station while other teams from his platoon, including the rest of his squad, concurrently worked through the buildings parallel to their position.

Stephen placed his hand on Rodriguez’s shoulder and firmly gripped a mix of uniform and dirt speckled neck. He pointed an extended hand towards a brick red building along the northern edge of the city and spoke with a distant stare. “That’s our next target.”

“Hooah.” Rodriguez responded confidently.

The men of Stephen’s “Alpha” fire team, representing about half of his total squad, entered the powerless building with their night vision goggles on and rifles traced to every corner. The team passed floor after floor without incident, cautiously peering out of upper floor windows to conduct a brief recon by scanning windows of the adjacent building. Convinced there were no signs of activity that could be seen from their elevated viewpoint, the team prepared to exit the opposite side of the building. Waters poked his head around the corner of a door adjacent to the exit door.

“I’ve got a weapon!” Waters’ voice was alarmed as he crouched down and raised his rifle behind the open doorway, peering through its scope. Tomlison slapped Waters’ shoulder and the rifle temporarily rose toward the ceiling for Tomlison and Stephen to pass into the room and take up their own firing positions in the same direction where Waters had aimed his weapon.

From the distance, Stephen could make out a rifle on the floor. It was partially covered by debris but under the rocks lay the unmistakable presence of a jacket extending to the rifle.

Tomlison’s deep but whispered voice rose over the stilled air, “I got eyes on the target. No visible movement.” He scanned the area around the body, training his rifle across any possibility of an unwanted surprise which might catch them off guard. Easing the rim of the rifle’s sight off his eye, Tomlison looked over his shoulder and called out, “No threats, Sarge. All clear.”

Stephen advanced past the body without concern and followed a disheveled trail of debris pattern leading to an enlarged opening. He could see from the hole that the rubble in the room had actually come from the entire north-facing wall being blown out. Soot covering the ground and surrounding walls suggesting that heavy firepower had blown through this area in recent days if not that very morning. Outside he saw a rough looking pack of dogs. Their hair was matted with what looked to be blood. Stephen’s squad had received word about the starving dogs in the city following the sounds of battle in the hopes of finding a carcass for dinner. The thought made him sick to his stomach so he turned away from the opening.

Tomlison, resting his chin on the cool steel of the rifle and still securing the area, called out to Stephen, “Whatcha got, boss?”

“Looks like someone made the mistake of popping off a few rounds at those Marines.”

Catching up to Stephen and surveying the damage in the adjacent room, Waters uttered, “Damn, they won’t be doing that again.”

Hooper arrived and began examining the destruction of the room with an investigator’s eye. “I’d say… looks like an AT4 hit this.”

“You sure? We using tank busters on buildings now?” asked Stephen.

“Pretty much.” Hooper responded. “Hey, somebody starts taking pop-shots at soldiers, I’d throw back whatever I had handy; the bigger the better.”

“Hooah!” chimed in Waters, “Blow their asses out of the sky.”

“Sends a nice little Hallmark message to his friends in the nearby windows too.” Hooper confirmed, pointing his finger sideways like a gun with a bobbing thrust and a brash expression as if he were in some rap video sending a pointed threat to some unseen adversary. “Tells ’em not to start something they can’t finish.”

The bravado was etching up a few notches when Tomlison called out to Stephen, “Yo Sarge! Might wanna take a look at this.”

Stephen walked over to where Tomlinson knelt near the body of the dead insurgent. His hand held up a large piece of debris, exposing the bloodied and battered face of the enemy and revealing it to be a boy who couldn’t have been more than 10 years old.

The air thickened in its place. It didn’t matter that a massive hole left the southernmost portion of the room completely exposed, not even the slightest breeze dared enter the room as the men hesitantly crowded around the boy’s lifeless body. Not a word was spoken by any of them but each gave attention to his own doubts. Stephen picked up on the shared realization that their enemy wasn’t always the evil, knife-wielding psychopathic jihadist they wanted him to be. But he couldn’t have his men’s alertness shrouded by doubt in their mission or grief over the enemy’s indiscriminate use of weapons; even if those weapons were kids whose lives were robbed from them the moment they were assigned a firearm.

“This wasn’t us and this isn’t why we’re here.” His voice lingered in the air. Air which had gone stale as it hovered above the image which would never depart their memories. “And more importantly, we did not put that gun in his hand.” Stephen’s voice was paired with hurt, disgust and a righteous indignation. “Let’s keep moving,” he ordered. The team left the room and exited the building in complete silence.

Their next target was directly in front of them as the buildings had been designed to parallel the road. The second building seemed to have taken more of the brunt from the Army’s gun bunnies in the artillery. There was also evidence of damage from aerial bombardments as the higher floors seemed to be far less stable. Stephen sent Hilton and Tomlison up a mostly intact staircase while Hooper quickly set up a firing position with the M249 squad automatic weapon, more commonly referred to as the SAW. He faced a collapsed wall on the second floor; the most obvious place for an ambush. With Hooper’s SAW well positioned and at the ready, Stephen felt confident that any attempted ambush on their squad would be brief and highly unsuccessful.

The sound of a door being kicked in echoed from the open wall. Hilton called out an all-clear, and Stephen followed to inspect. The room was spacious, and light showered in through the ceiling. At the far end was a brightly illuminated and wide stairway which Stephen moved toward. As he approached, Stephen knelt down, gripped the adjacent wall and leaned his head over the first stair to view where it led. His eyes squinted as he felt the warmth of the afternoon sun beat down on his face from three stories above the building’s hollowed out interior.

Hilton’s head appeared next to him with a full-face smirk. His deep baritone voice caused even his whisper to echo off the stairwell. “Umm… I think we’re good here, Sarge.”

Stephen gave a nod of affirmation, “Yeah, I don’t think the roaches even stuck around this building. Let’s keep moving.”

Hooper packed up the machine gun while Rodriguez moved forward to lead the team out the back door. When Stephen followed Waters through he realized it wasn’t actually a back door but instead a large hole. The back door was about ten feet to their left. Apparently, Rodriguez was in an efficient mood and wasn’t concerned about proper entrances or exits.

Stephen’s fire team filed towards the third building with the same careful speed and precision they had approached a dozen others over the past few days. In better structural condition than the prior two, the building was blocked by oversized iron gates and a large chain bound together with a rusted but hefty padlock.

Attempting to maintain their low profiled presence, Stephen signaled a scissor motion with his fingers to Chelp, who responded immediately and revealed the 42” bolt cutters from under his ruck sack. Chelp fastened the heavy duty tool around the lock and quipped under his breath to Stephen, “Like a toddler snapping a pretzel.” With the clank of metal snapping, two large pieces of the lock fell towards the ground. At the last second Chelp scooped his hand under and caught both pieces before they could announce the squad’s presence. Chelp gave Stephen a relieved devilish smile.

Stephen smarted back in a low tone, “Like a toddler alright. Let’s move.”

Moving through the open gate, Rodriguez already had his rifle pointed outward and was covering the left side of the building as Chelp propped the gate open for the rest of the team with a large piece of rock from a nearby pile of rubble.

“Sarge. I’ve got windows and stairs on this side,” Rodriguez quietly announced.

“Let’s check it out.” While giving Rodriguez the order, Stephen looked directly at Corporal Waters. Youthful inexperience was unable to recognize the preeminent opportunity for a spontaneous poker face and instead Waters stared wide-eyed at the ground in front of him as if doing so would cause the next words to fade from their inevitable arrival.

Stephen could see waves of fear crashing inside of Waters. As the squad leader, he knew the abused child Waters grew up as was still haunted by the destructive words of his distant and neglectful mother. A consequence of being told he was the spawn of a deadbeat father was the grave fear of being placed in a position where others had to depend on him. Waters was deathly afraid of letting others down and the idea of being the first to enter the unknown of a breached doorway meant having his brothers place their trust in primarily in him. Stephen had watched the corporal firm up with dreaded anticipation at each door they had entered. Despite this, Stephen felt Waters had the strong qualities and the potential to be a leader; possibly even an officer one day. Knowing this, Stephen burdened himself with an obligation to push the corporal and force him to conquer this constrictor of fear which seemed only to grip him tighter with each visitation.

“Waters,” Stephen spoke with the hope of inspiring strength and empowerment, “you have point.”

The words had the opposite effect. The youthful mask of overconfidence had long since withered away and Waters looked up to Stephen in disbelief, his chest heavily contracting with each labored breath.

“Corporal Waters,” Stephen repeated, this time as an order. “You’ve got this. Take us in.”

Waters’ face tightened from the nervous gritting of his teeth. Drawing strength from the confidence in his squad leader’s tone, Waters responded to Stephen with a cooperative nod and turned towards Rodriguez. “Follow me.”

The squad moved forward and began a coordinated drift onto the path of Waters’ wake. Stephen motioned back towards Chelp, who was still at the gate, to secure the cutters and advance. As Chelp began maneuvering his ruck sack to wedge in the cutters, the bracing rock holding the gate open shifted and fell flat; allowing the recoil of the iron gate’s rusted springs to contract and slam metal against metal with a loud clang. Stephen fired a scolding glance that induced an apologetic head tilt from Chelp.

The side door was not well secured and Waters yanked it open without effort or sound. The rest of the team followed, crouching under the elevated windows then up the three concrete stairs as they entered the building from the east side with rifles raised. Moving along a wide hallway of what seemed to be an office building; Rodriguez paused at a perpendicular hallway and scanned right then left. The hallways were dark and there were several doors throughout the building, each one giving him reason to pause. Rodriguez lowered his night vision lenses and cautiously stepped across the open area trailed by Waters. Stephen and Chelp were a step behind Waters as they followed him into the darkness with Hooper, Hilton and Tomlison trailing with an intentional two second lag while securing the exterior of the building.

Chelp was the first to respond to the high pitch squeak as one of the hallway doors made a creaking sound as it opened. “Contact right!” Before Stephen could react he heard a hard thud hit the ground along the hallway. He couldn’t see it but he heard the clang of a heavy shrapnel shell roll and bounce off what sounded like a metal office cabinet.

Chelp’s voice burst through the tight hallway, “Grenade!”

Mile 9

Having already turned to face the contact, Chelp pivoted on his right foot and dropped his head and shoulders. He charged into Hooper, propelling him back against Hilton. In high school, Joshua Chelphalvanova had been a dominating force on the football team’s defensive line. Chelp grabbed Hooper under his armpits and used every ounce of strength in him to ram his teammates the same way he would passionately throw offensive linemen off the line of scrimmage and into their unsuspecting quarterback just a few years before. Chelp drove Hooper’s body through Hilton’s muscular frame and slammed them both into Tomlison with a determination that carried all of them through the flimsy door, ripping it off its hinges and clear over the concrete stairs. As Tomlison tripped off the stairs, Hilton fell to the left and Chelp’s massive shoulders came crashing onto Hooper’s chest and indented the unforgiving ground.

Hearing the grenade roll behind him, Stephen didn’t take time to turn around but instead charged forward and dove into the far side away from the intersecting hallways. He grazed Waters who was in the process of moving left into the unknown darkness of the adjacent hallway. Stephen slammed into an already falling Rodriguez when the explosion erupted.

Stephen and Rodriguez landed far enough across the open space to be out of the angle of the deadly shrapnel. Stephen’s first conscience thought was that he could taste blood. He wiped his tongue over his lower lip and grimaced from the sting of a bleeding split. Stephen coughed and sloppily spat on the floor, his lip revealing an unending flow that would certainly require stitches. He lifted his face off the rough cold surface and pushed his Kevlar helmet above his eyes. It didn’t help; his sight was useless in the darkened building. The sun’s brilliance couldn’t breach beyond the undersized windows with the rays filtered out by the heavy concentration of smoke and ash particles lingering in the air. He crawled up to his hands and knees and tried to pull his night vision goggles back down but only saw a winter wonderland of falling particles. He couldn’t tell if it was broken or just that there was nothing to see. As disoriented as he was, he could make out several bursts of blinding glows behind him. Stephen pulled off his night vision and saw the amber burning of several small fires around the room. He reached down to grab his weapon and hesitated, his chest pumped with adrenaline and anxiety as his mind scrambled to figure out how to get an account of his men. Without warning, Stephen was grabbed under the arms and he felt the strength of Rodriguez rushing him toward the fires closest to the door they had entered through.

It was head’s up thinking by Rodriguez. The grenade’s deflection off the cabinet had caused it to roll back toward the same wall where the insurgents had shut the door and were taking cover. The explosion blew a hole through their wall and plunged the would-be ambushers into a buttoned up pocket of chaos mixed with smoke and debris. Whether any had survived was a question Rodriguez knew would be better asked once they were all outside of this kill box.

Stephen and Rodriguez crossed the open area and saw the light of day shining through a broken door which now hung by a single hinge. As they passed the threshold, Stephen saw his men getting to their feet and noticed the closest man to him was Tomlison, who had been at the rear of the fire team when they entered the building. A quick glance around and he immediately knew someone was missing. Stephen recalled that Waters had been in front of him and had jumped left when the call for alarm went off. Without explanation, Stephen broke free of Rodriguez’ grasp and spun around, returning back through the doorway and into the smoke-filled building. Faintly guided by the small fires riddled throughout the clearing hallway, he took the first left down the hallway and began feeling around for his steps.

Gunfire erupted behind Stephen. He dove to the ground and pinned himself against the flat wall. He still couldn’t see but he raised his rifle and wildly returned fire into the darkness. He saw the burst of additional fire to his right, stemming from the entrance they had used. Despite the confusion of the moment, his men were quick to engage. Several more muzzle flashes appeared from the opposite end of the hall where the insurgents had emerged. The echo of heavy caliber firing thundered through the building with a chorus of shattering glass.

Stephen assumed Hooper had taken a position outside and was now unloading the SAW into the room where he expected the insurgents to be. The SAW’s gas regulator offered two different gas port sizes allowing cyclic rates of fire of 725-rounds per minute; which in itself caused a significant amount of pure bread, dreadfully intense intimidation. Unfortunately, what Hooper couldn’t know but Stephen could now see was that the enemy had been joined by others from a room just opposite them and several had moved into the hallway. Hooper was shooting at an empty room and the rest of their team was being forced back out the exit by an abundance of enemy firepower.

Stephen made his way farther down the hallway. He got into a prone position and began firing rounds down the long narrow corridor. Hoping to buy his men some time with cross fire he flipped the switch to fully automatic and sent every round into the darkness of the hallway. When he heard the bolt snap back for the last time he instinctively depressed the discharge button and dropped the magazine. Immediately he slammed another magazine into the rifle. Fearing his men had been pushed beyond the door’s threshold, he launched a barrage of covering fire in the hope of providing his team a chance to regroup outside. Another hard recoil and a pause, Stephen swapped out his clip and reloaded once again. He listened for the expectant rush of Chelp or Tomlison to come bounding through the hallway.

His men must have been forced to take cover outside because instead of a supporting volley from his team, he heard the yelling of insurgents as they ran forward and took positions behind the corners of the open area where the hallways met. Stephen continued firing but after only a few rounds the rifle stopped. He discharged the magazine and quickly rolled his finger across the top. Feeling the prick of the bullet’s tip he knew he had ammo. Unfortunately, he was suddenly reminded of the well-known Army truism that your weapon had been made by the lowest bidder. Jammed rifles were a constant problem for soldiers, especially when operating them in an environment where the rifle can get small granules lodged into the firing mechanisms; small granules like sand.

He knocked the magazine against his kevlar helmet before jamming it upwards into the rifle and pulling the charging handle all the way back. It was pointless to try and observe whether or not a round had been discharged because he still couldn’t see anything but flashes of muzzle fire. He released the charging handle and tapped the forward assist assembly to make sure the bolt had closed. With a quick prayer for the Colt Corporation, Stephen aimed at a single muzzle flash and squeezed the trigger to release a single round. He breathed only a hint of relief when he felt the recoil and saw the muzzle flash continue but quickly rise into the ceiling, indicating that his round had found its target. After a brief pause, their return fire became deafening.

Rolling to his right in the dust filled hallway, Stephen rolled onto a spike of some sort. Responding, he flipped his body hard against the wall and his leg began to cramp from receiving a major charlie-horse. He instinctively looked toward his leg, but caught sight of a faint light further down the hallway where there might just be an exit. Painfully rising to his feet, Stephen bolted for the light amid a hail of bullets exploding into the walls around him. Not two steps into his sprint, he tripped over something and fell face first into the darkness. He reached down and his hand found flesh; it was Waters.

Mile 10

He pulled his face close to Waters and started calling out to him. The hallway echoed gunfire so loudly Stephen couldn’t even hear the sound of his own voice. Waters was limp and unresponsive. He grabbed Waters by his load-bearing harness and dragged him towards the room with the light in a crouched, limped run. Stephen cut the corner to the lit hallway too close and clipped his shoulder on a large metal filing cabinet. The cabinet was industrial sized, and Stephen hitting it was like a fly ramming into a door; the door doesn’t notice the fly but the fly goes spiraling out of control. It was exactly what happened to Stephen while also tripping over Waters. As he was twisting and descended past the immovable cabinet, the hallway behind him exploded from the massive shock explosion of a fragment grenade.

The concussion of the grenade collapsed ceiling tiles onto them and the seemingly impenetrable cabinet also gave way and collapsed onto its side. The ringing in his ears made everything else inaudible and Stephen could hardly see his own hand in front of his face. Looking around he saw a large object and placed his hand against it. It took a moment but his fingers felt familiar buttons and plastic trays which slid out laterally. It was a commercial printer. He looked up and saw a window too small to fit through about seven feet above his position, which was currently flat on his back. All too late, Stephen realized he wasn’t in another room or new hallway but instead, he had dragged Waters into a small cove the office had used for printing supplies. He pushed Waters a few more feet to the back wall of the cove and then returned to get a view of the hallway.

Stephen positioned his legs against the wall and put all his strength to shoving the fallen cabinet into an angle for a makeshift defensive position. Pain from his leg shot through his body but his scream was muffled out by the cabinet’s loud screeching as jagged metal creased through the linoleum flooring. Its slight movement provided Stephen with enough encouragement to ignore the fire he was feeling in his leg. Having only moved the cabinet about ten inches, he reasoned that the angle could actually serve to deflect incoming rounds better than the hope of resisting them. He sent a volley of gunfire throughout the hallway. His targeting was pure guesswork, and he half expected the rounds would naturally find their targets. Identifying the enemy’s advances through the increased volume of their weapons, he kept firing until his magazine was empty.

The responding fire continued but after a moment the rapid pace stopped. The hallway was beginning to clear of smoke, and Stephen heard Arabic voices speaking to one other. Stephen reasoned they had realized he was pinned and they were advancing on his position. Slapping in a fresh 30 round magazine, Stephen again raised his rifle and took a deep breath before discharging the first three rounds. The hallway filled with an agonizing scream followed by angry shouts and a towering sequence of bullets pelting the walls of the cove. Stephen ducked back out of the line of fire as the unflinching cabinet deflected and absorbed the enemy’s fury.

Another heavy thud hit the hallway wall just past the entrance to the cove. The forcefully thrown grenade continued rolling further down the hallway and violently exploded without endangering Stephen or Waters; but filling their protective little nook with smoke. It became clear to Stephen the insurgents would continue to advance in order to obtain an angle where they could simply lob another grenade and blow he and Waters out of the cove. Stephen leaned over the cabinet and continued firing with quick bursts into the darkness as empty shell casings leapt from the ejection port of his rifle. Then it stopped. The weapon had locked up again. Irritated and enraged, he dropped the magazine and immediately slammed it back into the rifle. He pulled back the rifle’s charging handle, released it with a loud smack, tapped the forward assist button, angled the muzzle into the obstructive haze and pulled the trigger. Nothing. Stephen couldn’t exhale. He pressed the button to release the magazine and pulled it from the rifle. His heart pounded through his chest with anticipation and a tingling crawled up the back of his neck as he ran his thumb over the top of the magazine where his ammunition should be. He felt the unmistakable smooth bump of the spring press which forces bullets to the top. He was empty.

Stephen’s momentary shock was rudely interrupted and he quickly ducked as the insurgents continued firing into the cove. The smoky haze in the air began to clear but it served as no relief to Stephen as chaos and confusion of darkness were his only remaining defense. The peppering holes in the wall of the cove were increasing in their angle, suggesting a cautious progression by the insurgents. He didn’t know if they figured out that he was out of bullets. Perhaps that awareness is what prevented them from tossing another grenade in toward the cove. Quite possibly they were concerned about the building’s structural integrity or perhaps a close-range execution was simply more to their liking. Then again, there was no telling how many of their friends Stephen had killed in that hallway. They may have something far less pleasant in mind as retribution. Stephen hoped for the grenade.

Stephen pulled Waters’ limp body close to himself. The gradual settling of smoke, debris and ash permitted him to look closely at Waters for the first time. Stephen’s own heart was beating so fast he couldn’t even get a read on Waters’ pulse. He didn’t know if Waters was alive or dead. At this point, it didn’t matter. They would both be dead soon.

“Waters? You there? Talk to me, man!” Stephen was speaking to the dark and had a greater expectation of the wall responding than the unconscious young man lying next to him. A cold tingling recoiled through his head and spine. Despite the pain, Stephen knew the feeling came from fear. He was overcome by the sense of being at the end and being entirely by himself. While his family navigated the challenges of daily life, in the dark decimated corner on the other side of the world, he was alone.

Anxious for what was to come next he thought about his wife and daughter. A lot of guys said you shouldn’t think about family when you’re in a hot spot. Something about the thought of them causing a soldier to lose his nerve and screw something up. Stephen couldn’t disagree more. Thinking about his family gave him a determination, strength, a focus. If there was any chance of making it out of this hallway alive, it could only be because he was thinking of them and how much he longed to hold them once more.

Staring into the flow of dust particles but looking at nothing, Stephen’s thoughts drifted off to what it meant to be a husband to Sarah. He loved his wife; there was no doubt. But he couldn’t communicate with her and he was certain distance had not been the only problem. Every recent conversation was tense and immediately launched into him interrogating Sarah about Hailey’s health. Any other topic which happened to broach their brief chats did little more than provide revelations about something else that had broken or gone wrong and was more expensive then they could afford. His home was falling apart, metaphorically and physically, and he was too far away to do anything about it with his marriage beginning to represent the never-ending list of problems he couldn’t fix. Another round thrust its way into the cove and penetrated the copy machine. The burst of shredded plastic and explosion of internal components startled Stephen.

Lying on his back, he tried to control his deep rapid breathing by closing his eyes and forcing his mind to refocus on the daydream. At the bottom of a burnt out cove, inside some old office building in a war-ravaged city, in the middle of a place he had no business being, just waiting for men he didn’t even know to come and kill him, he had no choice but to be honest. He had to admit he had been unsure if Sarah was up to the task of staying married. Being completely real with himself, he didn’t know if he was either. If it wasn’t for the chance to speak with his daughter, Stephen wondered if he would even call Sarah.

Hailey, on the other hand, was a purpose for his life. He longed to just lay down on the ground next to her and wait until the irresistible gravitational pull of a father’s vulnerable back inevitably drew her to jump up and spring onto him. The way she would look at him; inspecting his face until suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to her, she would plant a quick but sweet kiss on his forehead and spontaneously hug him with no intention of ever letting go.

Letting his mind drift on about Hailey, he couldn’t help but worry about the likelihood of her cancer returning and the fear that her life could be cut so short from the illness. With that, so much of her life had already gone. Time was passing and he was missing it. It wasn’t just time, there was an additional slight from life that fueled Stephen’s frustration. Instead of the picturesque image of her running free across fields of dandelions dressed up like a princess, a large bulk of his mind’s pictures of Hailey had been that of a physically and mentally exhausted little girl cloaked in a hospital gown, straining to expose that soft and tired smile. The smile that plainly revealed her submission to the routine pokes and prods of the constant testing she had to begrudgingly undergo. Stephen wondered if she even understood what was going on, and that not every young girl was made to face the trials she had to go through. He hoped not.

Hailey had become used to nurses and needles, something Stephen felt no child should have to hold a memory of. He wanted one more day with her. Something that would give him a chance to replace those memories of hospital trips with fishing trips, baseball games and daddy/daughter dances. If not a day, then maybe a morning. One morning to teach her that jelly-filled donuts really can be breakfast and that a really good joke can lead to hot cocoa blowing out your nose. If not a morning, then a minute. Just a minute to tell her how much he loved her and that he had made the biggest mistake of his life by leaving her. One single minute to tell her that he hoped she would one day forgive him, even when he knew he could never forgive himself.

But he didn’t have more time, because the hallway didn’t have an exit; not one that included him living long enough to walk through it at least. Trying to think of a solution he touched Waters’ arm and squeezed the young man’s limp bicep. “Waters!” The dryness of his throat scratched deep causing a choking sensation that made him cough through his mouth and nose while he lied to himself by talking to his unconscious friend.

“Don’t worry, Waters. We got this. We’re in deep but hang on just a little more.” His head fell back and Stephen closed his eyes. “Just gotta figure something out. Then we go. Gotta push beyond this mess… gotta push through… to whatever’s next…” Stephen’s words faded before they left his mouth. Another round penetrated the cove’s wall just past the copy machine and well into a range which exposed his body. The round eliminating any hope of an escape plan which Stephen could have even begun to consider. With alarming clarity, he realized that the shot was intended to test the waters of his resistance. Stephen became vividly aware of the close presence of those who would soon end his life.

Rolling onto his side, Stephen reached an arm over and pulled Waters’ lifeless body tightly against him, gripping both hands around the limp hand of his friend and his responsibility. Letting gravity have its way, Stephen rested his head on the ground and let the uncomfortable helmet connect with the floor while taking a deep breath of dirt and dust. He lay there motionless with his eyes closed, waiting. Waiting for something, anything. While a spark of hope lingering deep within the hall of his soul and dared to imagine that he really waited for that fun-loving, impetuous laugh and the sudden surprise of Hailey’s little body pouncing onto him the same way he used to do with his own father. He loved that despite her hindered body, she loved recklessly. Her love for him was pure and truthful.

Truthful.

The word had meaning to Stephen that he hadn’t previously given it credit for. Maybe laying on the ground, out of ammunition, covered in dust and darkness while awaiting a brutal death was a good way to bring new meaning to words. But his clarity around the word was undeniable. Also undeniable, was the fact that he had not been truthful with his own wife. Was omitting the truth the same as lying? If so, then Stephen had been a liar to the one person he swore to always be truthful to. Resolved, he swore to himself that if he was given the chance to hold Sarah again, he would be truthful with her. And in that moment of truth, he would confess to her that he had lied to her about this second deployment. He would confess that in his fear and frustration with what life at home was becoming, he had run away. He had run away from both Sarah and Hailey by turning down the local desk job which the Army had so generously offered him so that he could stay close to home and his recovering family. Turned it down and instead, he had volunteered for the deployment.

You volunteered. You chose to leave them. Nobody made you do it. You volunteered.

Tears dragged ash and dirt from his eyes as he thought about how he could be home safely by their sides each evening. But instead, he had lied to his wife and chose to deploy. He had lied to his wife and in that lie; he had put himself into the situation which would now be his death.

Through burning tear ducts he whispered, “Sarah, Hailey. I’m so sorry.”

Then it happened. The explosion was stronger than he had anticipated. Stephen grit his jaw and jammed his eyelids closed as the air was forcefully extracted from his lungs and a horrifying burn engulfed his entire body.

Mile 11

Stephen had asked for it, at some level he even wanted it. A grenade was certainly preferred over being left to the creativity of his vicious attackers. They were sure to overwhelm him at some point and it was better to end this nightmare quickly. But when the explosion hit, it concussed him and he suddenly had no idea what was happening. As he grasped for breath his entire body was thrown shoulder first against the wall of the cove. Waters came up with him and Stephen’s body broke some of the impact while also knocking out what little wind was left in him. The side of Stephen’s face smashed against the drywall. Gravity rolled him onto his back and he began to struggle for a breath. He tasted blood pooling inside his mouth and spat, but he couldn’t feel his lips and the result was a messy splattering cough. From an instinctive curiosity he pushed open a sliver of his eyelid. Realizing that his left eye was pasted shut, he stared at the ceiling. There was a roaring cloud of fire surfing across the upper tiles and he watched as it blew out the small and now shattered window above him.

He reached out his legs and searched with his feet in the hope of using the metal cabinet to turn his body over and somehow protect his face. The cabinet was gone. He tilted his head up and saw nothing but dense black smoke. Stephen coughed and began breathing in what looked like snow falling all around him. Instead of the soft refreshing bristle a snowflake brings, the air caused him to choke and he turned his head toward the wall just before everything went black.

Stephen was startled by the distant echo of gunfire. With his head pressed against the wall, he felt Waters’ body blanketing atop him. Only one of his eyes could open and it took some twitching of the lid’s muscles to pry it wide enough to see finally again. Completely dazed, he heard the muffled voices of men shouting. There was a massive ringing echoing within his head and he felt the urge to vomit. Still struggling to take in each breath, he got the signal from every appendage in his body that none of them were up for moving at the moment.

There was too much movement around him to focus. None of it made any sense and the few circuits in his brain which were working told him it was best not to try and understand anything right now. “Whatever.” he grumbled in a drunken voice and willed his eye closed to go back to sleep, still gripping his arm around Waters.

Stephen dreamed about trying to get undressed for bed. He was having a hard time getting his shirt off. He knew he was dreaming but that did nothing to diminish his frustration. Too tight! The shirt was too tight and he had to get it off. Can’t get it off the… No, his mind began to register the struggle; it wasn’t him. Someone else was trying to pull his shirt off. He saw the shadow of a man trying to pull the shirt over Stephen’s head. Then he looked down and saw his bleeding leg. It wasn’t just bleeding; there was another man holding his leg and biting it.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” Stephen started yelling and tried to shake the man off his leg. But no sound emerged from his mouth and the leg wouldn’t even move.

“Sergeant Lantz! Do you hear me?” Stephen was startled, and his heart did a double tap inside of his chest as his eye burst open from a thick layer of dust-filled muck. An inch from his face was a man recognizable to Stephen, though he couldn’t remember the name or where he had seen the man before. The man turned and called out over his shoulder. “Eyes open! Lantz is with us!” His hollering was barely audible over the loud and constant firing of automatic weapons. The man turned away from Stephen and seemed to leave. Stephen decided to close his eye, face the wall again and rest. He was tired, it had been a long day and going back to sleep seemed like the best and only idea his mind could formulate at the moment.

Without warning, Stephen was yanked upward. The disturbance was as painful as it was abrupt. Stephen opened his eye and saw two men were dragging him over a large pile of rocks. His Kevlared head was being smashed against rock after rock while his torso felt like it was being stabbed from behind and crushed from above. Stephen saw a bright flood of white smoke and let his head fall to the side.

I’m back in this damn hallway again, aren’t I?

Stephen addressed the men with the cognitive capability of a fraternity pledge on his bid night, “Really guys? Didn’t I just leave this place?” His slurred mumbling went unheard and unheeded.

Reality briefly snagged him from the stupor and Stephen became conscience of the situation unfolding around him. Soldiers had a strong grip under his armpits and were hastily dragging his body out of the southern part of the building. But it was so bright, completely unlike the hallway from moments ago. The pain in Stephen’s back started to let up, or maybe it was just numb. But the pressure on his chest was overwhelming to the point where he couldn’t catch a full breath. Without warning, the soldiers broke into a makeshift trot and a tsunami of brilliance and warmth washed over him. He closed his eye and groaned in pain. His head was bouncing around when he caught sight of Mayweather moving alongside them and peering at Stephen with a look of shock.

Mayweather pulled a radio mic up to his mouth and shouted to the soldiers carrying Stephen while at the same time blasting orders to someone else. If Mayweather was good at anything, it was multi-shouting.

“They got ‘em both. That’s it. Roger that, they got our guys. I repeat. All men are accounted for.” Mayweather listened intently to the radio’s chattering response which was too low for Stephen to hear as he passed by them. Mayweather then looked over his shoulder and shouted, “Affirmative Gunny! I say again, affirmative. You are good to go. Get your men out of there and bury those bastards!”

The two men were still dragging Stephen at a steady but far from gentle trot. Watching the scenery of destroyed buildings pass by his vision, Stephen’s eye expanded to get a good look at the tan colored M1A2 Abrams tank idling in position. The seventy ton armored juggernaut held its 122MM gun trained directly at the building they had just pulled Stephen from. He chuckled to himself at the realization of where the new door in the southern hallway had come from.

Tilting his head awkwardly, Stephen looked back toward the building and saw several Marines evacuating the building. Once they were clear, the tank released a heart-stopping thunderous clap. The tank crew delivered three sequential rounds into the four-story building before it completely collapsed on itself. Stephen craned his neck to see a glimmer of the rising dust plume emerging from the collapse.

He smiled and said under the weight of his hampered breath, “Good bye, crappy little building.”

He hadn’t much liked that building and the hospitality had been somewhat less than pleasant. Groggy and disoriented though he was, Stephen looked upward and caught the eye of a dirty-faced grunt who couldn’t have seen his twentieth birthday yet. Stephen smiled at him and squeezed the Marine’s arm with a deep expression of the overwhelming brotherhood he felt for the man at that moment. He wanted to speak but Stephen still couldn’t take in a full breath without choking on a cough.

He wanted to rest but the men pulling him seemed hell-bent on dragging him over every rock in Iraq before finally laying him between a tall building and a grouping of chest-high concrete walls, known as Texas Barriers, for cover. Without hesitation, a guy who must have been a medic ran over and immediately began buzzing around him. Lights were being flashed into his eye, water sprayed his face and a barrage of questions flooded him from multiple directions as the medic ran through a field diagnostic to assess his condition. Two other soldiers were hesitantly moving around him when he felt a sudden release of the constriction that had been hindering his breath. Looking down, Stephen was shocked to see the top of Waters’ uncovered head resting on his chest.

Mile 12

“Look at this son of a bitch! You hear me? I said, look at this Hooah son of a bitch!” Stephen could hear the rhythmic escalation of Mayweather’s taunts long before he could actually see him but he had no doubt the platoon sergeant was strutting.

“Lantz! You sure as hell do like attention, don’t you?” Mayweather stood directly over Stephen and laughed.

“Mayweather…,” Stephen coughed through the debris he had inhaled and struggled to get the full sentence out. “Glad… you didn’t leave…”

“Well, hell. We couldn’t let you have all the fun on this wonderfully fine day.”

“Really, no kidding. Thanks brudder.” Stephen couldn’t bring himself to sarcasm and his lip was beginning to numb. “I didn’t think we would…”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Don’t you go getting all soft and squishy on me now.” Mayweather interrupted. “Besides, I happen to know how often you shower. And ya’ see, the Geneva Convention has all these rules and types about cruelty to the enemy.” Stephen thought this guy was having way too much fun for the middle of a war zone. He really did love this world. His own mind drifted aimlessly for a moment and Stephen’s eyelid began to droop closed.

Mayweather leaned down and gave a firm pat to the side of Stephen’s face. “Hey, hey! No sleeping there, squad leader. You see any pillows here? This ain’t no nap time.”

Stephen wondered if the man was trying to keep him conscious or if he was that desperate for an audience to laugh at his corny humor.

Once he confirmed that Stephen’s clear eye was wide open and locked onto him, Mayweather stood up and continued, “Like I was sayin’, the Geneva Convention. I mean, what’s CNN gonna report when they find out we left our own little weapon of mass destruction in that building?”

Stephen sighed and resolved that Mayweather was never going to miss a beat. Regardless of what was happening around them, this man would not pass an opportunity to yank a chain. He really seemed to have no capacity for knowing when to shut up. Stephen looked up at him and squinted to see Mayweather’s silhouette, which was only partially blocking the sunlight. He had to push out deep breaths to push out the words, “You know… an asshole... you are.” There was no sarcasm there. Stephen was speaking the honest truth about his good friend but it only emboldened Mayweather to respond with his signature wink and that overconfident click from the edge of his mouth.

“You just hang in there Yoda. Doc is on the way.” Mayweather stood tall and looked around at the battlefield carnage with the calm satisfaction of a suburban dad proudly surveying his lush green lawn. “Ah, I tell ya, Lantz. It may not be napalm in the morning, but it still smells like luvin to me!”

Stephen peered up at the man in continued disbelief and spoke slowly, “There sum-thing seriously wong with you. You shood. Need to get checked out too.”

Stephen winced as a tow-headed medic with a pale face and bursting blue eyes peered into his own moderately opened eye. “Hey brudder, you mind gibbin me a rundown on how I’m holding up?”

Normally reserved on making explanations but conscious that shock was a real threat to his patient at the moment, the medic accommodated Stephen’s concerns, “Yeah, sure. Sergeant, you’ve got an obvious concussion so you’re probably feeling pretty shook up right about now. Several lacerations to your face, including a split lip which is why you’re talking with half your mouth.” The medic gently pressed his fingers along the ridges of Stephen’s cheek and skull. “I’m not seeing any signs of broken bones in your face. But you’re going to have some pretty attractive bruising there.”

“Bullshit! That’s the way he looks every morning.” Mayweather cracked in, clearly less concerned about the risk of shock than the medic was.

Despite his youthfulness, the medic remained immune to Mayweather’s ongoing banter and gently applied a touch of pressure to Stephen’s leg. “There’s a bullet wound in this leg here and it’s cracked your femur bone. We have an exit wound but the femoral artery didn’t get hit so the wound is not critical.”

“You gonna need to stick, I mean, stitch that up?” Stephen asked, while noticing that his tongue wasn’t moving at the right pace and he became aware of how much he was slurring his own words.

“Not unless you’re looking to get benefits as an amputee.” The medic quipped, “No, we’re not going to stitch anything in this contaminated environment. We’d just be making a little home for some nasty infection.”

“I’m good!” Stephen allowed his head to drop back against the barrier, “Pass on the stitches.”

We’ll get you back to the med site and they’ll do the full clean and closure. I’ve got pressure locked on the leg to stop the bleeding. It’s a quick job and it’ll hold, but I want to come back and redress this. Right now, I need to get back to Corporal Waters over there and make sure he’s still stabilized. When the aid team lands to get Waters, I’ll come back over and check on you.” He must have questioned Stephen’s awareness because the medic leaned in and peered up into his face. “You copy, Sergeant?”

Stephen peered through his squinted eye and nodded, “Yeah. Good copy. Of course, make sure Waters is good.”

Someone else said something too hard for him to hear. Mayweather was starting to kneel down next to Stephen when he glanced over his shoulder and stood to grab a radio being handed to him, “Yeah, let me call it in.”

Stephen looked up at his friend and cracked a smile. All around, he could still hear gunfire. It sounded to Stephen as if the .50 caliber machine guns on that M1 were getting some good use. In the midst of everything, that sound made him smile. Mayweather was looking in the direction of the gunfire and responded, “Roger that, Horseman 6. This is Venom 2-7, over.”

Stephen picked up on Mayweather’s use of the commander’s call sign and knew their little soiree was grabbing some high-level attention.

“That’s correct. Venom 2-1 has been recovered. Both men are alive and accounted for, over.”

Alive. How good it was to hear that word. Waters would certainly need a lot of work, but both of them were alive right now and that was already more than Stephen had hoped for just minutes before.

“Correct. Yes. Roger that. We still have combatants occupying nearby buildings. They’re using small arms and mortar rounds from multiple elevated positions. Yes. No. Not to worry.” Stephen could tell Mayweather was becoming agitated by the curt way he responded to the barrage of questions.

“We won’t. Roger that, you have my word we won’t drop all the buildings in this city. Yes. I understand we’ll probably have to clean up our mess here.” Mayweather paused to hear what was clearly good news. He responded with resounding enthusiasm. “Absolutely! Gunships would be very much appreciated.” Mayweather covered the mic on the radio and with a smile bigger than his face would allow, he mouthed the word ‘Apaches’ to Stephen.

Stephen was pretty sure the mother of all migraines was making her way into his brain. Showing signs of a struggle, he mustered a limited respond with raise of his thumb.

“Roger that.” Mayweather confirmed, “Yes, we grabbed Sergeant Lantz. Affirmative. No, they had to enter the building. The Marines found him unresponsive but he appears to be coming to now.” Mayweather nodded his head to Stephen in a back and forth in an annoyed motion with an expression that imitated teenage rebellion. He focused at the ground next to Stephen and continued to answer the senior officer’s interrogation. “Negative. Sergeant Lantz grabbed Waters. Yes. That’s accurate. Correct, I did say he was unresponsive. No. There’s only one man here named Sergeant Lantz. Yes. Well, Sergeant Lantz had the wherewithal to bind himself to his teammate and fasten their LBE harnesses together. Our men didn’t have to go looking for Corporal Waters because Sergeant Lantz already had him. No, Sergeant Lantz was unresponsive. It took two men just to get them out of there.”

The explosion of a mortar round rocked the earth in the near distance and Stephen knew Mayweather’s adrenaline was spiking. “Say again? Say again, Horseman 6? I’m sorry. Did you ask why?” Mayweather listened intently before standing tall and smiling.

The smile was too big. Stephen knew the platoon sergeant had just popped a filter and the conversation was about to go south.

“Why… why you’re asking me? Because he’s one hardcore ass-kicking son of a bitch, that’s why!”

Almost immediately, Mayweather quickly caught on that a bit too much of his personality may have carried over the line and sheepishly followed up with, “umm… I mean, he’s one hardcore ass-kicking son of a bitch… sir.” Having enjoyed his moment of outburst, Mayweather turned away to privately finish his conversation and prepare for the tongue lashing which would come from his multiple breaches of protocol.

Stephen looked to the opposite side and saw Chelp, Hilton and Hooper. The young medic was behind them attending to Waters. Chelp had a wrap over his head and Hilton had already been fitted with a makeshift sling on his arm. Each had a mask of blood and Iraqi desert blended into their complexions. Stephen tasted his own blood again as he smiled and winked the one eye he could open, “You guys… you look like shit.”

Chelp quickly shot back, “Ready to go back in when you are, Sarge!”

Less enthusiastically and sucking in air through labored breaths, Hooper grunted with a nod to Chelp, “I think this mountain of dog turd over here cracked my sternum.”

Chelp unsympathetically laughed at Hooper, “That’s alright; you can say what you want now. Eventually, you’re gonna name your first born after me.”

“My first born? Maybe a kidney stone.” Hooper responded.

“How ’bout a dog?”

“Deal.”

“Hooah.” Chelp confirmed.

Hilton’s deep voice overtook the rushed triage location, “And think, this heart, all evil shed away. A pulse in the eternal mind, no less. Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; her sights and sounds…”

“Hilton!” Pausing from the task of securing their perimeter, Tomlison looked up from behind the scope of his rifle and leaned across the injured bodies of his squad mates. “Hey buddy, you do realize you’re American and not English, right?”

Shifting from the stoic poet to his muscle-head persona, Hilton angled his head toward Tomlison and responded with his intimidating deep bass tone, “It’s Rupert Brooke, you uncultured dolt.”

“I’m just saying,” shrugged Tomlison as his eye returned to his scope. “You’re an American… who happens to be of African descent… fighting through a desert in Iraq while quoting old dead guys from England.”

“Hell,” chimed in Hooper. “What’s one more country? Hilton, please continue.”

Nodding to Hooper and bearing a proud smile, the poet continued. “…dreams happy as her day; and laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness. In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.”

Stephen smiled at the bond his men shared. They had all made it out of that hell-house. Perhaps, not in one piece, but they had all made it out and made it out together. He rested his head against the concrete and soothed his wounded lip with his tongue to ease the dryness.

Paroled from his report to command, Mayweather returned to Stephen and the others. “Damn! I tell ya. Apparently, Colonel all-up-my-ass just wants to stay informed. At least that’s what he calls it. But since when does a combat zone SitRep get packaged with a proctology exam!”

“I heard it was standard operating procedure. You should be grateful he didn’t have you turn your head and cough.” Stephen slowly responded with a squint, though whether the stabbing pain above his open eye came from the sunlight or something internal, he couldn’t tell.

“You see what happens when they put a silver bird on a dirty leg’s shoulders.” Mayweather routinely took every opportunity to openly mock a commanding officer who hadn’t attended Airborne school.

“Sounded to me like you were having a good time.” Stephen gave a straining smile even though the medic’s pain medications were not keeping up with what was certainly an approaching bulldozer in his head.

Mayweather leaned down towards Stephen’s head to meet him eye to eye. “Seriously, Lantz. That stuff you pulled in there, going back for Waters and all, fighting off those rat-bags and taking it to them man-to-man. And then strapping your boy to your own chest? Brother- that is some serious, high-speed, low-drag action hero shit, right there! I’m telling ya. You should absolutely be thinking about Ranger School.”

“No, thanks.” Stephen waived a dismissing arm.

Mayweather pressed on, “I’m telling ya. After this place, sixty-four days of sunny Fort Benning will be a vacation. Seriously though, it’ll change ya forever.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that. They tell me you used to be good looking.”

Mayweather’s laugh peaked beyond his lungs as he rose to his feet. “Now? Now he has jokes? Hey Doc, no more morphine for this one. Just give ’em another rifle and throw him on the next block!” Mayweather started walking away but he was still having an all out party and looked around to survey the day’s work with satisfaction. Calling back to Stephen he said, “Hey, don’t go nowhere. I gotta check in with our new buddies in heavy mech. Waters there has a pretty serious head injury so they’re calling it an immediate triage.”

Stephen was aware of the Army’s triage procedures which gave priority to injuries which threatened life, limb or eyesight. Waters must be in pretty bad shape.

Mayweather continued, “Which means you get to tag along. I heard they were almost done waxing your limo for that nice, smooth and plush ride back to Margaritaville. I’d join you buddy, but you know, there are a few of us who are going to have to stick around and get some work done today.” Mayweather gave his classic wink and click of the mouth to indicate he was saying goodbye to his injured friend.

Mayweather had only taken a few more steps when the all too familiar streaking pitch of a mortar round creased through the clear blue city sky.

“Incoming!” Someone shouted and bodies began to scramble.

The errant round slammed into an upper floor of the building directly behind them. The explosion ripped apart the building and rained chunks of concrete down on their makeshift medical site. Stephen was lying on his back when the round hit and between his injuries and the ultra-strength painkillers coursing through his body, all he could do was raise a single arm above his head in a vain hope of protection. With his one good eye he looked between his fingers to see several large blocks of concrete directly above him descending too fast for him to register.

He was still looking at the rocks when Stephen felt the forceful shove hit him hard from the side. Mayweather’s body slammed onto his torso skidding Stephen against the concrete barrier, into the ground and pressed his cheek deep into the jagged dirt. Mayweather squeezed Stephen from all directions in an attempt to cover as much of his body as possible. Wincing from the pain of the small gravel stones imbedding deeper into the side of his face, Stephen was unable to move. A second later he felt a powerful impact as if a pro wrestler had launched himself from the top rope onto Mayweather’s back. Then another impact. And another, until Mayweather’s grip went limp.

No talking, no gunfire, no sounds. Stephen couldn’t move and his head was positioned helplessly forward, staring straight ahead into the white fog of debris surrounding them. His elbow was elevated on something rough and solid. There was a tremendous pain in his shoulder as it bent his arm awkwardly across his face. The only image he could make out was his own hand directly in front of his eyes, barely distinguishable from the solid chalk that swallowed everything around him. As the dust in the air started to clear, Stephen squinted his eye and saw a slim maroon line forging its way down the skin of his forearm. The steady stream consumed the white chalk as it continued down the path of his arm, beyond his hand, until it formed a teardrop shape at the end of his harshly crooked and immobile finger. The maroon bubble swelled until it dropped, and Stephen’s eyes followed its descent onto the ground. His gaze fixed on the ground when another drop landed, immediately followed by another that splashed into the growing puddle of blood directly in front of his face.

Mile 13

“Hey buddy, are you alright?” The alarmed voice came from directly above Stephen and a hand gripped him under the arm. “That was quite a fall you took. You okay?”

Stephen looked at his graveled covered hand and saw a red stripes in his palm mixed with blood and asphalt. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just zoned out. Must have tripped. Thanks.”

The man held Stephen’s elbow and placed a reassuring arm on his shoulder. “Alright. You’re gonna wanna take a little more care there. You might even want to walk that off for a minute. At this point of the race a lot of people don’t realize how tired they’re getting and they begin drag their feet a bit. Catch a piece of the pavement and you have a little nasty like that. Try to keep those feet up, okey-dokey?”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks for the help.” He gave a nod as the good Samaritan runner picked up his stride again and raced ahead, leaving Stephen with more injury to pride than flesh. Stephen remained bent over on his knees a moment more. Glancing back, Stephen saw the culprit. He had gotten so lost in the memory that avoiding the golf ball sized chunk of asphalt in the road hadn’t even crossed his mind.

This might take a moment. He thought to himself.

Slowly, he straightened his back, stretched his sore leg and starting to walk again. Several other runners passed by with one or two who witnessed the fall, a couple gave commented on his strong recovery and encouraged him to keep pushing through. He brushed the rest of the asphalt off his skinned elbows and repeatedly contracted his fingers to loosen the stiffness of overstretched tendons. He must have been running with clenched fists because his fingers were sore and ached each time he extended them out.

A particularly concerned lady slowed next to him, “Hey there. I saw you fall. Are you okay?” Her caring tone but resolved tone had the hint of a mother’s compassion but it lacked any sympathy whatsoever.

She must be a mother of boys.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Left a little bit of skin and a whole lot pride back there, is all.” He responded with a smile. “Thanks for checking.”

“Alright then. Try to be more careful. Okay, hun.” She instructed and took off at a pace that told Stephen he would not be seeing her again on the course.

Most definitely the mother of boys.

The road didn’t energize him as it had before. Instead of gliding, each step now felt like he was pounding a hole in the ground. He noticed his stride had shortened and around the same time he began feeling a stinging pain on the side of his right toe. The mid-morning sun continued to rise and with it, the air’s temperature. Roaring through the earlier miles, Stephen had felt his shirt sticking to him from the sweat. Now it regularly dripped from his forehead and stung his eyes despite a steady routine of brow wiping with his forearm. He wished he had left the long-sleeved shirt at home. That maniac guy in the yellow singlet was looking pretty brilliant right about now. A small breeze offered a hint of relief, but Stephen continued to feel the warmth beginning its migration through each limb of his body.

It seemed there hadn’t been an aid station in miles. Truth be told, Stephen had gotten into such a rhythm of running he knew he may very will have run right by two or three of them. Regardless, he felt very thirsty. His throat became parched and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. A subtle but nagging dull pain began to form on the left side of his head. The combination of thirst and the aching in his head was making him a bit nauseous. He squinted in the sunlight and wiped his brow again.

Stephen pressed through the next half mile when an aid station finally rose from the horizon like a desert oasis. Relief came over him as a wave of salvation pushed away his intermittent thoughts of keeling over dead in a dehydrated state. As he approached the station, there were several signs on both sides of the road. Many were encouraging notes with phrases like, “You can do it!” and “Pain is temporary, Pride is forever.” Stephen got a chuckle out of the one that said, “Donuts and Coffee just up the road… way up the road.”

A short man with a prosthetic arm bellowed out instructions to upcoming runners. “Water on your right, electrolytes on your left! If you’re not stopping then stay in the middle.” Apparently, the man had little need for a bullhorn as his stature had absolutely no relevance to his volume. Stephen veered to the right where a young man with a buzz haircut and a friendly smile gave him a cup of water. Stephen couldn’t tell if he gulped the water or inhaled it, but the cup was empty before he realized it. Typical of the other stations he had seen, the volunteers were extremely friendly and encouraging. Stephen didn’t know where these people came from or who they were. He assumed they had to be runners themselves. They certainly knew plenty about what he was doing and gladly offered appreciated advice. A lady nearby carried platter of fruit so he took an orange slice and reminded himself to stop at the rind. While passing the middle of the table, a young lady in a Golden Knights windbreaker handed him another gel packet.

“No thanks,” Stephen declined.

“Are you sure?” she looked at him hesitantly. Apparently, he really looked like he needed it.

“No, really. Thank you but I don’t think I can stomach another one of those things right now.”

“Alright, sir. Take care. You’re doing great.”

Stephen made his way to the end of the table where a woman was mixing a blue concoction with greater vigor than necessary. She was pleasant but stressed in her attempt to keep up with the never-ending demand caused by the constant stream of race participants. Stephen smiled at her and took a cup of her mixture, “Are these electrolytes?”

“Yeah, I think so. Help yourself.” She could be serving straight vodka and Stephen felt she would have thoughtlessly offered it with same rushed enthusiasm. But then, he probably wouldn’t have minded either way.

He was still quite thirsty and after tasting the sweetness of the refreshing beverage, Stephen asked for another drink. The lady was overly generous and reached down to offer one of the larger bottles they had stored under the table. “Here you go, hon. This should help you along.” She must have seen how thirsty Stephen was and felt sorry for him. Graciously, he took the bottle of blue sports drink and made his way from the table. As he left the aid station Stephen opened the bottle and drank half the container in a single gulp. The cold refreshing beverage was exactly what he wanted. Appreciating the flush of electrolytes he had just applied to his system, and ignoring the overload of sugar, he closed the bottle and gripped his new companion firmly into his palm.

As he passed the last of the aid crew he saw a sign indicating that the station was being sponsored by a local Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps program. That explained the respectful high-schoolers as well as the generous and supporting mothers mixing drinks. An elderly gentleman, in his late 60s or early 70s, stood alongside the road waving an American flag and cheering on runners.

Stephen nodded to the man and took a second to focus and read his black hat which covered the man’s balding head. The hat’s patch suggested he was a Vietnam veteran. There was a unit pin attached to the side which Stephen couldn’t make out. What he did see though was the very familiar insignia of a purple medal with the image of George Washington on it.

Stephen recalled that day in San Antonio, Texas. It was May and there was an uncharacteristic hint of rain in the clouds looming above. Something he had learned about people living just south of the Texas Hill Country was that they never complained about getting rain, even when it brought the periodic threat of deadly flash flooding. On this gloomy day to remember sacrifice, he found it ironic that the locals were in such a good mood.

Stephen stared at the ground and examined the hundreds of small one-inch tiles which had been so delicately placed. The detail of the oversized image of the Purple Heart medal was incredible, particularly around the section of George Washington’s image. It was an impressive tribute donated by a generous artist to the family center at Brook Army Medical Center, or BAMC as it was known.

Because everything in the Army must have an accompanying acronym. Stephen sighed to himself.

He looked around and recalled being told the lush gardens surrounding them had also been donated. The support of a grateful nation had been both generous and humbling to wounded warriors like him.

Stephen spent a few months at BAMC recovering from his injuries sustained in Fallujah. The remaining soldiers in his unit were finishing up their rotation and would be returning stateside within the coming months. Stephen hoped to be fully recovered in time to see them arrive. He was particularly anxious to see Chelp and Hooper. They had each recovered from their wounds and quickly returned to duty alongside the rest of the squad. He hadn’t seen that dynamic duo since the mortar round exploded above them.

Stephen and Waters had been evacuated and placed on a transport flight to Landstuhl, Germany. Their ride wasn’t pleasant but Stephen was grateful for the Air Force trauma doctor who operated on soldiers during the entire flight. The doctor checked on Stephen regularly but kept Waters unconscious for the duration. It was impressive considering his operating room was little more than a gutted out cargo plane and had a tendency to periodically bank to one side.

Stephen had thought it quite a treat when the trip provided in-flight entertainment toward the end of the journey. The even-tempered doctor would look at him and talk about how everything was fine and he was stabilized, then he would excuse himself and take a few steps forward towards the cockpit. What followed was one of the most severe tongue-lashings Stephen had ever heard as the doctor demanded the pilots put wheels on the ground. The doctor would then come back as though nothing had ever happened. The only mention would be a non-emotional comment about how medical flights should be prioritized by German air traffic controllers. Then a moment later the doctor would again excuse himself and unload another verbal onslaught onto the pilots in the hope they would convey his reiterated regards to the crews on the ground. While he was sketchy on the details, Stephen was pretty sure this scenario played itself out at least four different times during the time they circled the airport. The whole scene provided a bit of humor that helped to pull Stephen’s mind away from the incredible pain he was under. Eventually, they made it to Landstuhl Medical Center and the entertainment ended.

Waters had suffered a severe brain hemorrhage. Keeping him alive in the makeshift trauma center had been nothing less than a miracle delivered through the inspiring skill of the surgeon and his rock steady hands. But once on the ground, each man was received by medical staff and sent to different wings of the hospital. Within hours, Waters had been prepped and was on a flight back to America where a special team from John Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore was waiting to treat him. It tortured Stephen to know he wouldn’t be there when Waters woke up. But Waters’ family was from the Northeast and it brought him comfort to know they would be nearby to receive him.

People arrived for the Purple Heart ceremony right on time. Family members and nearby friends came to support the soldiers they had spent much time praying for. Stephen stood in a modified parade-rest position as he braced the crutches under each of his arms. His right leg was still in a cast but Stephen had no complaints after recently being released from the facial mask which supported the rapid healing of the broken bones in his face. For all he had been through, he was actually feeling pretty good and recovery had been going better than expected. As positive and encouraging as the staff at BAMC had been, he began to find himself feeling guilty for being there. So many other soldiers had injuries much worse than his. He leaned forward to steal a glimpse of the soldiers to his left. There were a couple of Army guys and several Marines. He had gotten to know all of them over the past months.

Stephen appreciated those who had gathered to be a part of the ceremony. Attendees had been briefed beforehand that at a Purple Heart ceremony one had to be careful with the amount of sympathy shown. The service members being honored need to be treated delicately due to their injuries. However, they were still warriors and overcoming mental ailments could be just as difficult as overcoming their physical ailments. Inside they need to know they are strong, regardless of the injury. The last thing any warrior wanted was to be coddled.

Coddling was one thing; but who would punch a man who was recovering from severe wartime injuries and now standing on one leg and crutches? The impact to his right elbow nearly knocked Stephen over.

“Wake up, Lantz!” Mayweather was looking up at him from the wheelchair with that stupid grin on his face.

“Man! Are you trying to put me back in surgery? You almost knocked me over.”

“You? Are you kidding? With all of us cripples here, I’m thinking if I can take you down… you drop over into Martinez there… he takes down Saenz, who knocks over McRiddle and… well, you get the point. Let’s see how many dominoes fall before they set us all back up.”

“They need to fix that brain injury of yours.”

“No brain problem here, amigo. Just a snapped back and a dozen other broken bones while serving as your personal umbrella.”

“I’m talking about the brain injury that gave you that personality.”

“Ouch! Alright, yeah that was a good one.” Mayweather had met his match for the moment but was quick to keep talking, “Hey man. I think that hot looking mama over there is checking ya out. Maybe she’s got a thing for ugly guys with a limp. Play your cards right and you might get some sympathy action.”

“You have issues. You know that, right? Serious issues.”

Stephen looked across the courtyard to see Sarah staring at him as she approached. Mayweather was right, she looked great. She smiled at Stephen and gave a short but loving wave. He was glad she had made it to the ceremony.

In the street behind her, Stephen saw a green cab pull up. He couldn’t see who emerged from the cab but he assumed it was another friend or family member. It certainly was not uncommon to see a cab dropping someone off but several families had chosen to take up residence in the Fisher House. Since many soldiers had not been released from the hospital during their recovery, the Fisher House provided a place for families to live together, on-site next to the main hospital, while wounded service members recovered from their wartime injuries. The “home away from home” provided all the necessities of temporary living without causing a financial burden to the families. The donated houses had already been an enormous blessing to thousands of military family members.

Unfortunately, the Lantz family wasn’t able to take advantage of the donation. Even with her cancer in remission, Hailey was still too vulnerable to be exposed to the common germs orbiting a hospital environment. Army medical support and the generosity of beloved supporters sustained Sarah and Hailey while they stayed at an Army hotel at nearby Fort Sam Houston. After his injuries reached the predetermined level of healing, Stephen was able to join them while he finished his last few rounds of in-facility cycle of therapy. It also gave him a chance to celebrate Hailey’s sixth birthday outside of a hospital facility, something she hadn’t done too often.

The ceremony was appropriately brief. A full-bird colonel from a Warrior Transition Battalion had officiated and presented Purple Heart medals to each of the soldiers and gave a heartfelt appreciation to the supportive family and friends. The media was present and prepared to interview some of the soldiers, particularly those from the local area. Each of the service members received their Purple Heart medals that day. A few, including Stephen and Mayweather were also given medals of commendation for their sacrificial actions on that fateful day in the desert.

As the Colonel’s recitation on the history of everything seemed to drag on, Mayweather pulled Stephen’s arm down and whispered, “They should give me the damn Medal of Honor for having to stay on your stinky butt so long.”

“Dear lord. I’ll buy you a beer if you’ll shut the hell up.”

“Lemme think about that proposal.” Mayweather offered a feigned moment of consideration. “Yeah, I’m good with that but none of that cheap stuff.”

After the ceremony closed the Colonel invited attendees to take a moment to thank their loved ones for their sacrifice. Stephen was asked to step forward with the others to form a makeshift receiving line. The guests formed a chaotic gaggle until they began filing orderly through the service members. Sarah, knowing she would have him the entire afternoon, patiently waited at the end of the line. Friends and strangers alike shared love, gratitude and support all in the grip of a handshake. Stephen thanked them individually for coming and told them how much he appreciated their support. There were some tears but mostly smiles and several embraces.

Still saying thank you to the elderly gentlemen who was moving on to greet Mayweather, Stephen transitioned and reached out to shake the next person’s hand. There was no hand to meet, and when Stephen looked up he stood shoulder to shoulder with a pair of intimidating eyes emerging from the shadow of a dark beret. The eyes were so acute that they carried with them an ability to penetrate a man’s soul and reveal his deepest secret with but a single glare.

Stephen dared to avert his gaze and couldn’t help but allow his own eyes to admire the firmly pressed uniform of a highly decorated Command Sergeant Major. In an instant, he recognized six rows of ribbons along with a litany of badges which included Pathfinder, Airborne Jumpmaster, Air Assault, Expert Marksman, and the Expert Infantryman badge. On the man’s left shoulder, Stephen could see the edges of the unmistakable tabs identifying him as an Airborne Ranger. Atop the tabs rested a blue and gold one that read ‘Special Forces,’ indicating the man was a Green Beret.

Standing at full attention the man quickly snapped his arm into a perfectly straight salute just to the eyebrow’s tip on his rugged dark face. On the man’s left sleeve, Stephen could see the bottom cuff with sleeve marks representing numerous years of military service and on the right, short horizontal gold stripes above the cuff told the story of multiple combat deployments. Stephen looked at the white letters on the black nameplate which read, “Waters.”

Motivated by a concentrated blend of respect and intimidation, Stephen stood straighter than he had in years. His legs, cast and all, came to full attention with his heals locked together and feet at a forty-five degree separation. Leaning the crutch against his rib cage, he raised his arm and returned the salute.

They both dropped their arms and the Sergeant Major extended his arm to shake Stephen’s hand. His voice was rooted and rich, and while it clearly had the ability to command respect from the rowdiest of reprobates, it emerged with a tenderness and compassion which could only come from one who appreciated better than most, the value of a life.

“Sergeant Lantz, my name is Andre Waters and I came down here to say thank you to a man who goes above and beyond his responsibilities. I came down here to say thank you to a man who would place the lives of his men above his own, to say thank you to a man for keeping his head when most would have buried theirs.”

Still shaking hands, Sergeant Major Waters paused for a brief moment to collect his words. He was nearly betrayed by a growing lump in his throat, but he continued to forcefully lock eyes with Stephen. The man could have stood there for an hour without saying a word and Stephen would have waited, patiently.

“I came down here,” his voice renewed and strong, “to say thank you to the man who brought my grandson back home to my wife and me.”

Stephen was unsure how to respond to such a direct tone. While it was clearly spoken in gratitude, Stephen felt uncomfortable taking any credit for saving Corporal Waters’ life. “I’m honored, Sergeant Major,” were the only words capable of leaving his lips.

Continuing with the embrace, the Sergeant Major brought the other hand up to enclose Stephen’s and responded, “No, son. The honor is mine. Chip is doing well. Still has a long road ahead of him but thanks to you, we get to travel down that road with him. Son, your sacrifice honors every man and woman who has ever worn that uniform but more personally, your sacrifice will continue to bless his grandmother and me for the rest of our lives.”

As the grip of their handshake held, Stephen stood in silence and absorbed the impact of the deep appreciation being doused on him.

“I’ve always told Chip that to truly see the strength which lives within him, he only needs to see a reflection of himself during the toughest of times. Son, in that place where you two were, you got a chance to see yourself in the toughest of times. From what I’ve been told, when it all fell apart and you had nothing else to hold on to, a strength that works within you gave you the ability to keep your head together and do what needed to be done. You didn’t quit. You didn’t quit on yourself and you didn’t quit on your men. And for that, we are all blessed and thankful.”

The subtle scent of the man’s morning aftershave reminded Stephen to breathe.

“So now you know.” The Sergeant Major raised his left hand into a gentle fist and slowly, softly pressed it to Stephen’s chest and held it there. “Now you know what’s inside of you. Don’t you ever forget who you are and what makes up your reflection. In those tough times and there will be tough times. Son, trust me on that. In the days ahead, the months and the years. Whenever you face those times, you dig deep and you look hard inside yourself. Because now you know there’s a strength working inside of you that can do more than you might think.”

The man’s eyes seemed to etch each word into Stephen’s soul as he continued, “From this point forward, when you find yourself in the mess of things and you’re ready to give up, you reach out to that strength. You reach out and you get ready, because now you know it’s there. Don’t forget that.”

He paused, lowered his hand and broke the first hint of something which resembled a smile before finishing. “I can promise you, we won’t ever forget. And for that, I thank you.”

Stephen soaked in every word but was a loss for presenting his own. In his momentary hesitation the Sergeant Major, evidently a man uninterested in ongoing chatter beyond the directed purpose, released his grip and walked passed Stephen. He moved on to the other service members and offered brief but appropriate gratitude to each of them for their service and their sacrifices. Stephen observed each one adjust their bearing and stance as their respect for the Sergeant Major preceded his gratitude. He thanked the last Marine and then turned away to the exit. A moment later, Stephen watched Command Sergeant Major Waters get into the green cab. The man’s twenty minute objective had been completed and now departing for the last leg of a 2,000 mile journey back to the Northeast.

Sarah woke Stephen from his trance with a gentle embrace, “Hey you.”

“Wow, is it good to see you.” He brought his arms up to hold her and quickly kissed his wife with an appreciation even he didn’t fully understand.

“Who was that man you were watching?”

“Remember Corporal Waters I told you about? That was his grandfather.”

“That was sweet of him to come by. What’d he have to say?”

Still lost in depths of words which rattled around inside him, Stephen replied, “A lot.”

“Oh yeah? What about?” Sarah asked with innocent curiosity.

Stephen stood in awe as the scent of the Sergeant Major’s aftershave drifted from his reach. “I don’t think I know, Sarah. I just know it was a lot.”

Mile 14

Sarah knew the recovery time at BAMC had been a needed and well deserved time of rest for Stephen. But as many military families had come to learn, the hardest part of a soldier’s return home was being home. During over two years of deployments and medical recoveries, Sarah had made all the decisions pertaining to the household. It wasn’t a job she had asked for, but the day Stephen was activated with the National Guard, she became a full time employee.

When a Guard unit is activated, civilian communities bind together to offer support to the families of their military delegates. Sarah’s community was no different and the offers of assistance had been extremely encouraging. Initially, they were even overwhelming. There were food baskets, parties just for the families of deployed soldiers, free concerts put on, events for the kids. There was so much to do; Sarah was genuinely concerned Hailey would begin to think this attention was her new normal. Months into each deployment however, the community went back to its routines. Unintentionally, the wellspring of supportive efforts began to fade behind the brightness of daily life. Just as the veteran spouses of past deployments predicted to her, a few months into the deployment was when things would start to get really hard.

Sarah quickly found it impossible to keep everything together while trying to be both mom and dad to Hailey. As sick as Hailey was, she still had to be taught that Sarah was the parent and the final decision maker. In the beginning months without Stephen, Hailey would cry for him and refuse to do the basic things like picking up her toys until Daddy came home. Through several tears on both sides, Sarah eventually established her position as sole authority within the home.

Periodically, people would ask how they could help Sarah. It wasn’t an intrusive question. She just didn’t have a good response. There was always work to be done. But she quickly found that by accepting someone else’s help she often put herself in the inconvenienced position to coordinate their assistance. Sometimes it was a friend coming to help clean the house; who invariably would stick around to chat and cause Sarah to get behind on other items. Other times an acquaintance would do something like get a great deal on a replacement piece of furniture they needed, such as a big girl bed for Hailey, but it would still require Sarah be available for whenever they eventually showed up. None of these things had been bad, and she felt guilty for even flirting with emotions of frustration. She simply didn’t have the ability to drop everything in order to receive someone else’s graciousness. Eventually, she could admit to herself that what she was lacking was patience, and all she wanted was to be left alone to manage her divided family.

Sarah couldn’t behave like a typical single parent. Despite being deployed to the other side of the world, Stephen was still in the picture to have a say and an influence. At times she felt as though he was her supervisor looking over every decision she made. She could admit that he never really behaved this way, but without acknowledging it she placed him in the role. Sarah found herself questioning her decisions and then compounding the doubt by questioning what Stephen would think about it. The constant pressure, seemingly coming from two people, one of which was mostly unable to communicate, was too much on her. Hailey’s nightly bedtime crying became so common she practically made a calendar entry for them. Sarah realized she had to find a better way of handling things if she was going to make it through deployment.

In a break of clear mindedness, somewhat of an epiphany, Sarah awoke one morning and committed to taking on a new approach, a new outlook and a new role. It was the role of the household drill sergeant. She began to run the financial books with a sharper pen. She initiated routines and firmly scheduled her oversight of home maintenance with no tolerance for anything less than perfection by contractors or volunteers. When Hailey got sick, she coordinated her daughter’s medical appointments with fierce efficiency. She managed relationships and coordinated family visitations with firm opinions determined by what was best for her and Hailey. Despite the constant insecurities and questioning, she began to handle matters with commanding respect and immediate responsiveness. More than once she raised a firm voice to put a stranger behind the counter in their place. It didn’t matter if it was a mechanic trying to feed her a line about needing a new oil filter, or a less than enthusiastic office assistant at the doctor’s office who was previously unconcerned with Sarah’s schedule conflict. Sarah learned to put the screws to people and how to make them move. No longer was she passive and easy going. This new shoot first, aim later personality created a shadow that made her previously over-accommodating self, barely even recognizable. The only one who consistently penetrated Sarah’s thickening shell was Stephen’s mother, Rebecca.

Rebecca and Sarah did not have a stereotypical mother-in-law relationship. Years before, when Stephen and Sarah began dating seriously, Rebecca bypassed the standard judgmental review of her son’s girlfriend and instead took time to get to know who Sarah was. Rebecca learned that Sarah had lost her own mother during her teen years when a patron from a two-drink minimum bar slept through a lane change and continued over the road’s yellow line. Rebecca’s heart went out to the twenty-three year old without regard for her own son’s intentions. When Sarah’s status changed from friend to family, Rebecca remained a mentor to Sarah rather than a mother-in-law.

Rebecca was a true caregiver at heart. Even before her own husband suffered the debilitating stroke, Rebecca could always be found tending to the sick or lonely or elderly in her church. When the family began battling the dual fronts of war and cancer, Rebecca refocused her time, attention and strength on Hailey, Sarah and her own husband, Tom. Rebecca didn’t always ask. With a gentle forcefulness and a keen sense of grace guiding her to know just how far to push, Rebecca would step in and lower the heat before pots could boil over. She had an uncanny ability to see the things which needed to be done and know just where to place importance. Sometimes the priority was laundry, other times it picking up extra groceries, but most of the time her priority was the people. Whenever able, Rebecca would jump in and take care of something for Sarah at just the right moment, such as the time when Rebecca had asked teenager from her church to come by and trim the hedges. The young man arrived, accessed all of their tools, cleaned up and left without Sarah so much as having to make him a glass of lemonade. Rebecca, knowing Sarah’s attention had been diverted to caring for Hailey, took care of everything and gave him a ride home before Sarah even knew he had been there. In most in-law relationships this type of impeding activity by a husband’s mother could be like a lit match resting on a powder keg. But Sarah had a great appreciation for Rebecca, and the deployment only brought them closer.

Great as Rebecca was, she couldn’t replace Stephen as a helpmate. Several encouraging folk and the area support networks did their very best to reach Sarah. There were visits from friends and neighbors. On more than one occasion a senior officer’s wife and in some instances, even the officers themselves, came by to offer a word of encouragement in the hope to support a deployed soldier’s family. Due to Hailey’s frequent medical checkups, the visits were typically not received; many took the time to leave a friendly note or voice mail when the doorbell of the empty home went unanswered.

Circumstantial self-dependency mixed with a regular dose of loneliness forced an internalization of Sarah’s own feelings. As a result, she watched herself become stronger by the day and she hated it. She didn’t like being an authority figure. At first, she hated handling conflict situations even as small as disputing a utility bill. But as the frequency of conflict situations arose, the easier she found it was to bury her natural aversion and respond aggressively. A dishonest auto mechanic, an apathetic nurse, an unprepared contractor, regardless of the reasons for being put in a conflict position she quickly learned she could walk past her fears much more confidently while wearing a mask of determination and ruthlessness. It wasn’t long before her revealed no-nonsense personality eventually developed a supporting quick-fuse temper.

The sheltering masks didn’t work when she had to deal with Hailey. She didn’t like playing good-parent, bad-parent, which all too often came out in the form of bad-parent and really-pissed-off-parent. It broke Sarah’s heart to be the authoritarian and disciplinarian while also trying to be Hailey’s comforter and protector. Even when cancer wasn’t around, Hailey was still a difficult child. Chemo treatments and medications had led to side effects which didn’t ignore Hailey’s own frustrations. Some things had been amplified while others had been suppressed, such as Hailey’s ability to know when was not a good time to scream at the top of her lungs. Acting as a single parent, Sarah had long since kissed away dignity and pride.

Sarah understood what Stephen was doing and why he had to go. She knew deployments were part of the package when they had gotten married. She appreciated that he had signed up to serve their country. But that hadn’t made a cold bed any warmer, it didn’t balance the checkbook and it sure didn’t make raising a sick daughter any easier. She missed Stephen tremendously but once the storm of life brought on the rainy season and the initial months of loneliness had became familiar, she had to regularly remind herself that she didn’t resent Stephen for leaving. During his second deployment, she eventually forgot those reminders.

She knew a return from a deployment, especially one which included wartime injuries, was a difficult time for military families. Since his arrival was another abrupt return and this time to a military hospital, Sarah missed the reintegration training where she would have learned about being reminded about having patience, tender words, a low soft voice and several other things about how to help Stephen return. Instead, her crash course was seeing her husband for the first time in months, wrapped in bandages and healing from broken bones and a gunshot wound.

Rebecca and Sarah’s friends attempted to encourage her about Stephen’s road to recovery. Unfortunately, she quickly came to the realization that Stephen wasn’t the same as he was before. During a moment of Rebecca’s honest counsel, Sarah came to appreciate that she wasn’t the same either. Despite the advice she received from women who had gone through wounded warrior therapy, Sarah hung on to hopes that their life could go back to the way they were before deployment, before cancer, before whenever it was that they didn’t argue endlessly.

Tension in the house began almost immediately after Stephen’s hospital treatment and recovery. Sarah found she was having a hard time letting him make any decisions around the house. Whenever he brought something up, she habitually corrected him. Not one to quickly back down, the Army Sergeant’s knee jerk reactions were often direct and pointed. When he became tired of being corrected all the time, Stephen began anticipating Sarah’s rebuke. Without even thinking about it he would open a conversation sarcastically. Sarah, more than willing to take the bait, gave it back better than he expected. In response, he began to feel that her condescending responses justified his sarcastic tone and before either of them knew it they were engaged in an all out screaming match.

Before long the Lantz household had developed a pattern of disagreeing, arguing, raising voices and then silence followed by mutual but non-committal apologies. Stephen routinely suggested that all he needed was some fresh air. When they were both home at the same time, Stephen conveniently decided it was time to follow his physical therapist’s suggestion to go out and walk a couple of miles. The most peaceful time in the house was when the voices naturally descended in preparation for putting Hailey to bed. Without even knowing when it began or who did it first, they developed a routine of saying good night to their daughter separately.

Mile 15

The sun continued to push sweat into Stephen’s eyes. Whatever rush that blue sports drink had given him, the effects had unceremoniously worn off somewhere over the past couple of miles. His quads began to strain under the announcement of a soon to arrive muscle cramp. A focused tightness evolved around the scar tissue in his leg. His stomach competed for attention and began to feel like a percolator brewing a cup of something he had no interest in seeing. He passed another aid station but other than taking a small plastic cup of water and dousing it over his head, he didn’t linger. As he passed the table he saw a pink box of energy gels. The mere thought of eating another one of those things nearly made him hurl. Battling nausea, Stephen began having his first real doubts about even finishing the race. Aware of the risk associated with self doubt, he immediately caught the rogue thought, tossed it into a mental trash bin and set his mind straight again.

Really? You’re going to let an upset stomach stop you? Drive on, soldier. You got this.

The thought was ridiculous. He certainly wasn’t going to quit the race because he felt sick. He had been through too much to let a rumbling tummy force him off track. Not after what he’d been through. He knew the sting of pain; there had been too much of it in his world over the past decade. He thought about the screws in his forearm. The scar in his right leg that would always remind him of the impending end he had faced in Fallujah. There had been other types of pain as well. Though he hadn’t thought it at the time, some of the pains he had experienced had been harder than anything the desert could have ever thrown at him.

In the combat zone, Stephen always knew what was expected of him. When he got up in the morning, he had orders to follow and the ever present responsibility to do everything he could to keep his men alive. For the most part, it was pretty clear cut. Rules of engagement and military bureaucracy could certainly complicate even the simplest of days, but the basics of life in theater were pretty straightforward for a squad leader. Follow the assigned mission, achieve your objective and shoot anyone who threatens you or your soldiers. While that life was anything but easy, Stephen could acknowledge an element of simplicity to a combat soldier’s life.

Things were entirely different when he got home. Before his National Guard unit was activated, Stephen had worked for a small, privately owned company as a commercial real estate appraiser. He had joined McDowell and Associates when the company was still in its infancy. The owner, George McDowell, had undoubtedly taken a risk since Stephen didn’t even have a college degree at the time, much less a background in real estate. But McDowell was a risk taker by nature and when he hired people, he hired for attitude and not for skill; firmly believing skill was an attribute which could be taught. He wanted people who already had a hard-charging personality. The way McDowell saw life, much to the contrast of many mothers lecturing their disobedient children, attitude took too much time and energy to adjust. He immediately saw in Stephen, an assertive attitude and a spirit that reminded him of a much younger George McDowell.

McDowell’s faith in Stephen did not have to wait long for a payday. Stephen showed a willingness to put the time in to learn the industry. He successfully acquired the necessary licenses and worked hard to become skilled at his trade. Within the first year, McDowell’s bet paid dividends when it turned out Stephen had a knack for understanding the story behind a piece of property. Stephen’s gift was not so much intuition or insight, as much as it was his diligence to stay on a project until he knew the real value of a property.

McDowell gave Stephen the complete freedom to spend days or even weeks on a property. However long it took Stephen to feel comfortable. More than once, McDowell had been saved by Stephen’s thoroughness, whether the company was purchasing the building outright or brokering it for a third party. Before long, McDowell and Associates would not authorize the distribution of a single dollar for a property until Stephen Lantz placed his personal seal of approval on it.

The small company had done well under McDowell’s leadership and Stephen’s keen eye. After a decade, the firm employed nearly a hundred people and was expanding into other states. Before Stephen left for deployment there were even rumors of the company making a large acquisition so that it could begin eyeing the path to become a publically traded company on a stock exchange. It was something McDowell had talked about for years and Stephen was hopeful it would finally happen. An aggressive expansion plan for a small company meant salaries didn’t exactly match the contribution to the company for employees like Stephen. But he stayed content with the compensation structure because he also received part of the company’s private stock. Stephen knew a public offering would eventually create an opportunity to cash in some of that stock and allow his family to finally enjoy the fruit of growing another man’s dream.

While overseas, Stephen received word that the acquisition had gone through and McDowell was already in conversation with some high powered bankers from a major New York firm about taking McDowell and Associates public. It was a challenge for him to come back after being gone for the combination of deployment and hospital stay but Stephen reacquainted with the company rather well.

McDowell was a great supporter of his reintegration but Stephen had struggled with some of the cultural changes made in his absence. The company had completed the talked about acquisition and there were several new employees Stephen had never met before. The new energy in the office was much more aggressive than what he could recall. Though the company had expanded into new markets, he stayed focused on the commercial real estate side. The commercial staff had dwindled significantly since he had left and there was now a small army of appraisers he was asked to coach. Perhaps it was his own downtime spent through the months of recovery at BAMC, but he still felt a different tone in the office; cordial but in many ways less familiar and less trusting.

It was just after one of his late morning coaching sessions when McDowell interrupted him with an invitation to lunch. Sitting at a table in the nearby Greek cafe they had enjoyed dozens of times before, McDowell seemed out of sorts. Their regular waitress instinctively brought them two cups of coffee. Stephen noticed that McDowell spent a silent couple of minutes perusing over the menu, an act which seemed odd for a man who had ordered the same chicken shawarma platter with hummus, rice and a side of falafel every time they had eaten here.

Resting the open menu on his plate as if to express his frustration with being unable to make a meal selection, McDowell took a deep breath and spoke. “Stephen, I need to share something with you.”

Stephen’s guard went up as it was highly out of character for a self-proclaimed king of small talk to launch straight into business before ordering.

“The industry is taking a major hit. I think you know it’s had a major impact on us and well, to be transparent, the company’s not doing very well, Stephen.”

Stephen knew Mr. McDowell well enough to know what to expect but he always saw the older man as incredibly smart with a borderline addiction to optimism. There was a gloom on his boss’ expression that Stephen had never seen before. Times were tough, this was common knowledge and Stephen knew McDowell had been under heavy stress with their investment bankers. He had read plenty about the expectation of a continued downturn in the economy, but Stephen didn’t see a reason for panic. The company had withstood market swings and commercial real estate was still considered to be an industry relatively resistant to the collapse in the residential housing market.

“Mr. McDowell, we’ve seen tough times before.” Stephen chimed in. But even before the words finished escaping his lips, Stephen could tell McDowell would give no legitimacy to flippant and uninformed attempts at encouragement.

“You know,” McDowell seemed to express a deep pondering, “When we bought First Jefferson a couple of years ago I was sure it would take us to the next level.”

The acquisition had seemed a bit odd to Stephen. Their firm had historically been a real estate investment company that bought, sold or brokered commercial real estate properties. When McDowell led the company to buy First Jefferson Mortgage Group, Stephen just assumed it was a way for the company to move into the residential mortgage lending business. It wasn’t McDowell’s core business but from an expansion perspective, Stephen trusted the boss to know what he was doing. For Stephen’s part, he didn’t know the first thing about residential property, much less the complexities behind administering residential lending instruments.

“I thought I saw a huge payday for the company.” McDowell confessed, “I knew we were overpaying for their book assets but what did it matter? Investors are more interested in profits than they are free cash flow. The revenue from these loans would have given us a good shot at breaking even in two years and then double our annual revenue by the third. The bankers told me those projections were rock-solid!”

Stephen could tell McDowell believed what he was saying, or at least, he had believed it at one point.

He continued undeterred. “This was a chance for us to diversify our revenue streams and then break out with a public offering to take this company to new heights. The profit margins were enormous and besides, we were supposed to have protection on several of the subprime mortgages by purchasing the collateralized debt obligations from the insurance companies.” McDowell’s voice faded.

Stephen had no idea what collateralized debt was or why their company needed insurance but he could tell there was more so he let McDowell continue talking.

McDowell’s voice dampened, “You probably heard, at the end of last year, the housing market hit a brick wall. Our insurer stopped selling credit protection on the CDOs four months ago. Now the market is tightening and the subprime assets we bought from First Jefferson are showing a 300% increase in defaults. As an extra smack in the face, our New York investment bankers suggested we ‘postpone’ the IPO for a quarter or two. The fact they won’t even take my call anymore tells me just how interested they are in taking us public now.”

The jargon was completely lost on Stephen. He was confused and concerned. His friend was clearly distressed and Stephen didn’t have any idea of what he was talking about, much less how to help him fix it.

“It’s not just us. Stephen, this whole mortgage market is going to collapse. There are companies out there, major financial firms, who have jumped into this business with both feet. They’re going to get their rears handed to them. It’s going to crush them.”

“Wait, by major firms are you talking about publicly traded companies?” Stephen was starting to catch on that this really was bigger than McDowell and Associates.

“I’m talking about Fortune 100 international banks and brokerage firms who employ thousands and thousands of people. They’re just as caught up in these mortgage investments and they don’t have the first clue how the game works. They’re going to get hammered and when they do the repercussions are going to hit the whole country, regardless of what industry people are in.”

“Okay. That sounds bad,” he heard himself saying. Stephen had caught up with conversation and decided it was time to look at solutions. “So we’ll have to rely on the commercial investing to carry us through. Our bread and butter, right? It might get tough but we’re good at it and we’ve always made a profit in this business.” Stephen didn’t understand the subprime market or why McDowell had gotten them into this mess, but they were good at one thing and he saw no reason not to go straight back to it.

“I wish it were that easy, Stephen. The banks slashed our credit so we had to start floating our own projects. We’ve also been selling our commercial assets on the cheap to try to generate enough cash to keep operations going.”

“To keep operations going?” Stephen blurted out in shock. His words collapsed as if gravity had just been introduced to them.

McDowell ignored the interruption and continued, “However, housing is expected to continue dropping like a rock and there’s a realistic concern it will spill into the commercial market next. As a result, our investors have stopped looking at commercial properties and that bread and butter business of ours is drying up. I’ve been told our residential default rates will continue to accelerate and we still have to float the commercial properties we own. The bottom line is that we don’t have enough revenue to support our overhead anymore.”

“Mr. McDowell?” A tone of parental seriousness washed over Stephen’s voice, “What are you trying to tell me?”

McDowell’s eyes wouldn’t meet Stephen’s and instead drilled a hold through the cup of coffee resting between his palms. His voice was firm but strained. “It means, Stephen… that I have to let you go.”

Stephen’s mind went blank for a moment. After everything that had happened at home and at war, one of the few stable things in his life was his career at McDowell & Associates. What some could have seen as mundane or monotonous, he relished as predictable and reliable. Home life had been a tedious routine of arguments with Sarah. The ever-volatile ride of Hailey’s health concerns, the daily attempts to regain his own physical stamina and strength, he felt turbulence in every other part of his life except for work. Coming into the office each day provided him the distraction he needed. After the war, the pain, and rehab he knew that the stability of his daily work routine was the start of getting his life back to normal again. His work gave him consistency and satisfaction. It gave him something to look forward to.

McDowell’s words echoed in the empty valley of his mind. Stephen focused for a second to grasp them and make sense of the statement he had just heard. He wanted to respond with a calm and controlled tone that wouldn’t reveal the growing embers forming in his gut. It didn’t work.

“You can’t fire me!” Stephen commanded.

“I’m so sorry, Stephen. Besides being an employee who’s been the backbone of this company for years, you’ve been my friend and it kills me to be in this position.”

Stephen’s defensive nature fanned the flames and the ember began to burn hotter until his face was flush. “I was a Guardsman who was activated and returned wounded from war. You can’t just fire me after I return from being on active duty. There are laws against this.”

“Stephen, it’s not that.”

Stephen thought about the wealth McDowell had created over the last several years. Wealth Stephen had helped him make. Long hours and sacrifice Stephen had committed that were now being treated like it was something to be flushed down the city sewage drain. Feeling justified in his anger Stephen lashed out at McDowell personally, “You can’t fire me, terminate my job or demote me just because you’re not making enough money. If you needed to cut back then you shouldn’t have bought the latest eighty-thousand dollar Hummer model last year.”

Unresponsive to the attack McDowell drifted for a moment as his eyes reached beyond a nearby window.

“Stephen, you don’t understand.” Seemingly talking to someone beyond the cafe window he continued, his voice nearly void of all emotion. “We’re bankrupt, Stephen. All employees will be released and the doors will be closed in a week and a half just after the next payday. The final payday will only be a 75% payment. I don’t have a choice. There’s no money left and the banks have frozen our lines of credit.”

“This is crap, George!” It was the first time Stephen had ever called his mentor by his first name and by doing so, he knew he was crossing a line of professional courtesy that McDowell had generously extended to him over the years. Burning hot and raising his voice, Stephen continued his protest, “This is total crap and you know it! You got greedy. You got greedy and wanted to be some big shot who everyone would know. So you went out and you made stupid decisions that ran this company right into the ground.”

Deflated, McDowell looked away from Stephen, “You’re upset. I get that. You have every reason to be mad at me. But unfortunately, you’re also right. I’m sorry, Stephen. I truly am.”

Stephen’s anger burned as he struggled to find the right words which could express his outrage, “I can’t believe you let this happen to us.”

“Look, I’ve seen young guns like you before. You’re phenomenal at what you do and you’re absolutely going to land on your feet after this.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Stephen rebutted.

“Come on, Stephen. You’ve worked for me for years. Let me introduce you to a guy I know. This guy is an up-and-comer and he’s incredibly smart. I used to do a lot of work with his father. You know who Don Rockwell is? Ah, never mind. Honestly, the old man’s time has passed. But his son. Man, his son is a pit-bull. The two had a falling out and, well, why don’t I try to introduce you guys and see what happens.”

“Can he give me a job?” Stephen said curtly.

“I don’t know if he’s hiring right now but you never know what can happen.” McDowell appealed with a mistaken hint of cheerfulness.

“I don’t need to make new friends. I need to make money,” Stephen argued, his temperature rising with each word uttered. “I don’t have a year’s worth of padding in the bank account, George. I’m getting screwed here and I don’t have the same cushion you have. So forgive me if I’m not interested in having a brainstorming session over who I can meet at the 19th hole because I won’t even have enough money to pay for the round of golf in the first place.”

“Stephen, you’re going to be alright. I know that.” McDowell pleaded.

“That’s your conciliation? You just know I’m going to be alright? You’re kicking us all onto the street in the middle of a global economic meltdown and you can feel better just by saying I’ll be alright?”

McDowell retreated, “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I really am concerned for your well-being.”

“Your concern sounds about a year too late. You should have been more concerned when you were making decisions which would affect people’s lives instead of thinking about your own damn fame and fortune.”

Stephen looked directly at the man he had trusted with his family’s financial life. McDowell was crushed, humbled and hurting as well but Stephen felt no sympathy for the man. McDowell’s gaze retreated into a safe house of distant nothingness beyond the window. Realizing decisions had been made and that questions or even continued conversations were utterly pointless, Stephen joined McDowell’s prolonged stare through the window and cringed at the thought of how he would explain this situation to Sarah.

Mile 16

Stephen had always been a disciplined saver, much to the frustration and resistance of Sarah’s pre-deployment habits. He did his best to keep the family on a reasonable budget which helped them to live slightly below their means. But when Sarah lost her job during Stephen’s first deployment, the pay of an activated Sergeant in the Army couldn’t replace both their lost wages. Stephen’s discipline paid off and the emergency savings account did exactly what it was designed to do. In contrast to her previous spending habits, post-deployment Sarah had tactically and unemotionally cut all discretionary spending. With the determination of using a sledge hammer to open a pistachio, Sarah made it work. Despite their best efforts, the years following Stephen’s medical discharge from the Guard did not yield enough fruit for them to sufficiently recreate the savings account. Money trickled in but military benefit checks could only go so far towards a civilian family’s lifestyle. It wasn’t an extravagant lifestyle. But on top of supplemental medical needs, there were the basic needs of life and the typical obligations of a modern-day American household such as a mortgage and two car payments.

The economy didn’t just get worse, it became outright catastrophic. McDowell had been right about the impact to the major firms. Stephen watched the news daily as massive shutdowns and shotgun corporate weddings were orchestrated by the government. The banks became a joke where it was no longer a question of which ones could survive but instead how many would be closing down the coming Friday. Layoffs were announced daily and the headlines consistently suggested a deeper recession for the global markets. The job market became a flash flood of applicants. For Stephen, it didn’t matter that interviews, when he could actually get them, seemed to go extremely well. He was personable, articulate and could communicate his value well. Yet, every position Stephen applied for had ten more experienced candidates standing in front of him. Each of them with higher education, better qualifications and many more years of experience than he could tout.

Stephen lived daily with the expectation of being turned down. Many came as outright rejections by mail or telephone. Several came during a follow up call he would make to check on the application. He was surprised how many times he was told the company had changed its mind and decided not to even hire for the position. In most cases, companies did not even give the courtesy of letting him know he was no longer being considered. The peaks and valleys of potential opportunities became an emotional roller coaster for them both. Before too long, it got to the point he stopped telling Sarah about new possibilities. He hated disappointing her constantly. Eventually, she stopped asking because she hated being constantly disappointed.

Tension in the home hit new levels as the financial situation disrupted the foundation of every conversation they attempted. Even with Hailey doing better, both were on short fuses and they each brought blow torches to their discussions.

She was in no position to help financially but as often as she could, Rebecca would offer to take Hailey off their hands. Whether it was a Sunday morning, Monday afternoon or a Wednesday evening, Rebecca always had something going on she could take Hailey to, though most often it was an event with the people from Rebecca’s church. She would pick up Hailey and tell Stephen and Sarah to enjoy a little time relaxing together. They took advantage of the offer but routinely left out the ‘together’ part of the instruction.

It wasn’t long before the strained financial situation started having long term impacts. Stephen was in the process of getting another glass of water when he looked out the window at his broken down coupe which needed another $1,300 to replace the catalytic converter. What surprised him most was how offended Stephen felt. He had bought the car, he put gas in it every week, he had made payments on it for five years and kept up with the maintenance. Now the car was breaking down and it couldn’t have picked a worse time. There simply wasn’t enough left at the end of each month while food and housing were being prioritized over the car. Unsure of how to pay for the car’s repairs atop other stresses, Stephen reluctantly walked over and dropped himself deep into the worn couch.

Stephen sat without revealing the rising caldera from the volcano of his own thoughts. He affirmed his own frustration through self-deprecation as he questioned years of his own financial decision making. A fire began to rage as his thoughts dwelled on mistakes he couldn’t find but felt certain he had made, missed alternatives which could have prevented the present disaster. He soothed his own feelings of helplessness and discouragement by throwing his wife’s household decisions into the list of errors as well. The Army, McDowell, cancer; there was plenty of blame to go around. He stewed in anger and began practicing his words for the upcoming contentious discussion he knew would come when Sarah returned from her wonderfully relaxing afternoon of smiles and frozen yogurt.

His father would be home soon, joined by the ladies. He’d have that same expressionless stare he had worn for years. Stephen pretended to focus on the game being broadcasted and thought about the advice his father could have given him had he been able to communicate. It wasn’t just the man’s ability to talk, but words had left him as well. He couldn’t even formulate sentences in his mind so writing was completely out of the question. Disappointment rested among the bed of anger and frustration and in his peripheral, Stephen waited for his father to arrive. He would arrive and, along with everyone else, he would learn how his son had again failed to provide for his family. For the first time since Tom had suffered the debilitating stroke, Stephen was glad his father couldn’t speak.

Waiting for Sarah to return was a test in patience and humility. It was a test which Stephen thoroughly failed as his mind dug in with the planned arguments he was prepared to launch at Sarah. He knew what to expect from her and he was ready for battle. Despite the war between them, Stephen and Sarah were no longer in the combat zone with Hailey. Most parents don’t want to think of their children as average. To the Lantz household, average was the Promised Land. Average meant healthy and energetic instead of sickly and lethargic. Average meant trips to the zoo instead of trips to the hospital. They had quickly learned that average didn’t mean simplicity, but they would choose it every time. Hailey had been in a three year period of remission and every day it seemed more and more like Stephen and Sarah were in the process of raising a typical seven year old girl; complete with her first day of kindergarten. Average was on the horizon.

To Stephen, certain parts of life almost seemed more difficult when Hailey’s cancer was in remission. Arguments and disagreements were exposed for the minor annoyances they were and quickly dropped when their attention was entirely focused on Hailey’s illness. It reminded Stephen of his squad in the combat zone. Disagreements and the daily disputes would immediately become meaningless once the action started. His squad had experienced some of that in Iraq. The day before their convoy had been hit by the car bomb, he had observed Chelp and Tomlison bickering over something about the position of a foot locker. They were very near to blows when Stephen stepped in and literally had to shove them back. In one regard, he felt as though he saved Tomlison’s life that day. Chelp, who stood at six-foot-four-inches, weighed two hundred forty five pounds and had a five day a week gym routine, was not the guy Tomlison should have been arguing with. Nevertheless, the next day on that road outside Fallujah, Chelp and Tomlison were an unstoppable pair, each clearly willing to lay down his life for the other man. Stephen wondered how much he and Sarah were like Chelp and Tomlison. Were they really better off in the thicket than in the clear? Undoubtedly, he hated the disease and would do anything to relieve his daughter from cancer’s grasp. But he had to confess that when Hailey was sick, the house did seem to be more unified.

The drawn out death of their vehicle situation had already caused additional tension between Stephen and Sarah. Timing of their car’s use was never convenient and only became exacerbated when Stephen needed to travel to and from his weekly occupational calamity sessions, or as others referred to it, job interviews. There were dozens of employment fairs and he attended every last one of them. He collected business cards and completed tons of applications, each with varying levels of disappointment. He did his best to work his existing network of business contacts, many of which, he learned were looking for new jobs themselves. Stephen made it a point to reach out to the people he knew that might be able to offer a reference or suggest even some part-time work. Initially, he would meet a contact for breakfast or lunch but it wasn’t long before the dwindling budget required him to build relationships over a beverage, the inexpensive tall coffee of the day quickly becoming his drink of choice. He heard about networking groups around the city but most had membership fees which he could not afford. He did find it ironic that he didn’t have enough money for a membership fee to an organization that would supposedly allow him to find a job and earn money. It was a classic chicken and egg tale. He didn’t know which came first; he only knew he didn’t possess either one.

Meanwhile, Rebecca often graciously used their vehicle to serve as the family’s part-time chauffeur. Besides dropping her granddaughter to the school each day, she would frequently leave Tom off to his physical therapy sessions. On those days she enjoyed picking Sarah up and they would either shop for the household necessities or attend a gathering of some sort with Rebecca’s friends. Stephen repeatedly fussed that it would be easier to just give his mother some money and a list. Gas prices had passed well beyond the level of reason and stopping off to pick up Sarah only added more miles to Rebecca’s regular tour around town. Rebecca would have none of it and insisted on spending the time with Sarah. It took a few times but Stephen eventually began to see when Sarah returned she was always in a better mood and more patient. Finally catching on to the indirect benefit he was personally reaping, Stephen learned to shut up and refrained from offering any further suggestions when it came to commuting.

The door knob made a startling noise. Then it shook for a moment before pausing and then gyrating like someone beating a tambourine. It was as if someone was wriggling the handle for mere audible pleasure. No progress was being made but the entire door handle seemed near to falling off from being shaken so hard. Then, as abruptly as it began, the rattling stopped. The knob slowly turned and then suddenly halted as the door pressed open across the threshold, its soft creaking overwhelming the repetitive sound of the kitchen ceiling fan.

Stephen rose from the couch and took the sheet of paper from his tight grip, turning it face down on the island counter as he looked up at the door. His father’s large shoulder slowly began to emerge as it continued to press against the door. His usable arm still held the door handle and hanging from his fingers were two plastic white grocery bags; one with a pack of bagels sticking out. He pushed the door open as far as he could and held it in position. Rebecca came through the door shuffling sideways past Tom with two arms outstretched and bearing half a dozen white grocery sacks trickling from her fit but rail thin arms.

“I’m so sorry to make such a ruckus. I couldn’t get the handle with all these bags and… well, what can I say? He still likes to hold the door for me.” She turned back and gave Tom a quick peck on the lips, “Thank you, my perfect gentleman.”

Tom let out an affirming, “Humph” and proudly walked to the other side to continue holding the door open with his foot.

Rebecca began to speak but caught the expressionless look on Stephen’s face. Sarah made her way through the door with Tom still holding it open, “Thanks, Dad.”

“Hey Hon, your parents have spoiled us again. Your dad insisted on putting steaks in his cart and as soon as we checked out he absolutely refused to not let me take them. I’m telling you, he is one determined…” Talking away and progressing towards the kitchen she felt the uneasy welcome of Stephen’s silence. “What’s wrong?”

“My darling,” Rebecca, keenly aware of the environment and gently took Tom by the arm and pulled him out the open door, “would you mind helping me get the rest of the groceries out of the car?”

Addressing Sarah, Stephen turned over the piece of paper he had been studying and stewing over for half the day. “Do you remember when we had the home equity loan taken out with that other bank a couple of years ago?”

“Yes.” Sarah responded hesitantly, “Didn’t that get paid off at the end of last year?”

“It didn’t get paid off, Sarah. The mortgage company forgave it.” Stephen said curtly. He was upset and history told him to start bringing up his defenses for the fight which was about to begin.

“Okay, they were really generous and helped us out because we couldn’t afford to make the payments. Regardless, it’s gone. We don’t owe anything on it anymore. Right?” When it came to financial items Sarah tried to be very thorough to make sure there were no strings remaining before closing the books. Talking about the resurgence of a home equity loan she had been confident they were free of made her sick to her stomach.

“We don’t owe the money on the loan but apparently the amount they forgave us, well, it’s still taxable.”

“Is that normal? Did we process something wrong? We did exactly what they told us to do.”

“There’s some sort of exclusion out there that allows mortgage loans to be forgiven without paying taxes on it but apparently that doesn’t apply to home equity loans.” He gritted his teeth from the unpleasant expectation that she would blame him for this.

Sarah was confused. Financial concepts didn’t come second nature to either of them. It was a major step for her to take over the family finances. During deployment there were even few moments where she wrestled the urge to play ignorant and watch banking statements ‘accidentally’ get tossed with junk mail. But this time, with calm overwhelming her stirred stomach, Sarah found the strength to respond with a humble tone as she worked through the news, “Is there a reason we didn’t have the mortgage forgiven instead of the home equity line?”

Ready for the impending battle, Stephen launched the first assault, “We couldn’t Sarah. It was with another company and they weren’t offering to forgive the mortgage. It’s too big. That would have been too much money for them to lose.” To drive home his point, he shot an extra measure of condescension in his tone.

Sarah answered in the most non-accusing way she could, “Alright. What does this mean for us? What do we have to do? Are we going to have to pay it all back?”

Stephen huffed and looked at her with a frustrated face, though not necessarily directed at her now. “No. No, we don’t have to pay it back, Sarah. That’s not the point of loan forgiveness. But we do have to show it as income and because of that we owe the IRS thousands of dollars.” He took a deep breath and awaited the barrage of her explosive temper. Defenses were firmly in place and Stephen readied the launch of his counter attack against whatever she would throw at him.

“Alright. We’ll work together and figure it out.”

Stephen was so surprised at her accommodating response that he unintentionally verbalized it. “Excuse me?”

“It’s okay. We’ll work something out. I’ve got some ideas I wanted to talk with you about but you’ve obviously been giving this a lot of thought today. We’ll be more productive if we talk about it later when we’ve both had a chance to process this and think a little more clearly.” With that, Sarah stepped back and began to put away the groceries.

Completely convinced he was unwillingly participating in some sort of hidden camera show; Stephen looked around the empty room to see who she was performing for. He pressed her, “Wait!”

Immediately, Sarah put down the bag she was holding and replied with a smile, “Yeah, Hon?”

Completely disarmed by her soft tone, Stephen hesitated and then found himself almost at a loss, “Well, um… you said ideas. Um, what sort of ideas?”

“Some different things about how to help us out.”

“Okay… I’ll bite, what’s on your mind?” There was an uncharacteristic perk in his voice that caught Stephen off guard.

“Well, you’ve spent the last several months looking for a job.”

Here we go, Stephen thought. The sweet, passive and loving set up before she spikes his ego into the ground.

“I see you every day putting on the suit and going out there looking for work. You never take a day off. You’re working hard, really hard. I was thinking that you’re probably working harder than most people do in their full time jobs.”

He appreciated that she noticed he hadn’t been sitting on a couch waiting for a job to land in his lap.

“Basically, you’re in sales right now.”

“Come again?” Stephen had never spent a day of his life in sales and his confusion bucket was already too full to register what she was saying.

“You’re in sales but the product you’re selling is you. You’re trying to sell yourself to all these companies. Maybe it’s too much for them to buy a full-time employee in this horrible job market. Maybe what they need is to get a look at the product’s work before they commit to buying.”

“I think you lost me at the idea of sales.”

“Here’s the thing. I know how wonderful you are.” Sarah came from around the kitchen island and placed her thumbs into the belt loops of Stephen’s jeans. “I know what an amazing man you are and how hard of a worker you are. I know that whatever company hires you is going to be better for it.”

Stephen’s mind tripped and hit the delete key, leaving him to stand there with a blank on his face.

“The problem is that these companies don’t know it yet. To them, you’re just another real estate appraiser looking for a job.” She slipped her grip off his hips and returned to putting away the groceries.

“Okay, I understand that part. See it about a dozen times a week.”

She continued, “Instead of asking for a job as a full-time employee, what if you were a contractor for them. You take on the individual jobs and show them how good you are.”

“There’s logic there. That’s how a lot of the government agencies do it but I don’t even have a degree.”

“Yeah, that was something else I was thinking about but let’s save that for another time.”

“But Sarah, these companies are looking to hire an employee, not a contractor.”

“They say they are, but how many times have they told you the position you applied for was being removed? It’s likely they still need the work to get done, but they just have to reduce their overhead costs. Maybe they’re just scared to make a long term commitment. Contractors are a lot cheaper to the bottom line than employees.”

Stephen started to grasp where she was going, “Contractors don’t get benefits and when the work is over they don’t have to continue paying a salary.”

“Exactly! It might still be better than unemployment benefits.” Sarah continued talking while placing frozen foods into the freezer.

“You’ve got a point there.”

“With all the time you’ve spent selling yourself and looking for a job, you can shift that and instead spend that time selling your services to companies you already know.”

“Self-employment?”

“Better than no-employment?” Sarah lifted a bottle of red wine out of a brown paper bag.

“What’s that?”

“Just a little something to go along with dinner.”

“Sounds to me like I have a new job and probably need to spend some time working.” Stephen was a bit shocked at how excited he was at this new prospect.

“Well then. I suppose you’ll have a working dinner tonight.” With a fingertip Sarah tapped the maroon bottle, “We’ll just call this little bottle of Merlot an investment in your creative thinking.”

Stephen’s mind sifted beyond his previous expectations and he took off down the hallway. Rebecca and Tom reentered the house, dropped off some more bags and swiftly exited through the back door. Rebecca gently lifted her husband’s sore legs to a comfortable position on the back patio recliner. Tom had always enjoyed sitting outside to enjoying the beauty of his surroundings. Rebecca came back inside and connected with Sarah, “I’m going to head out in about ten to fifteen minutes to get Hailey from school. Dad’s just going to sit out back and enjoy this nice day.”

Sarah came around the kitchen counter and hugged Rebecca, “Thank you for everything today. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you.”

“You’re doing great, my dear. Now, when I get back, we’ll start searing those steaks like we were talking about earlier.”

The phone rang and Stephen called out, “Sarah. Darling? Would you mind getting that? I’m in a bit of a position right now.”

Sarah glanced down the hallway and saw the attic ladder with the lower half of a man extending somewhat frantically out of the ceiling.

“Hon… what are you doing?”

Stephen’s voice echoed through the hallway, “I’m trying to find that gray box with the fancy writing on it. I’m looking to find those nice wine glasses your old boss gave us at our wedding.”

“Sure, I’ll get the phone.” Sarah turned from the hallway and back into the kitchen, winking at Rebecca as she passed by and whispering, “Wine glasses from our wedding.” Rebecca responded with a sneaky smile and an encouraging thumbs up.

Sarah gleaned a seductive smile towards the dangling legs in the hallway as she answered the phone, “Hello. This is Mrs. Lantz.”

Mile 17

Rules exist for a reason. Stephen knew this as an undeniable truth. Rules maintained order and order guided progress. In business, Stephen knew there were rules. Typically these rules were clear cut and straightforward. Whether it was for a single company or an entire economy, rules existed to keep things orderly and to guide industry’s progress. In war, Stephen had rules of engagement he was under and he understood why they existed. His enemy might not conform to those rules but he still had to follow them. In their own vile way, Stephen could see the enemy had built their own version of order and progress, even if it was simply to disrupt these very orders of progress his rules were designed to preserve. So too, in marriage there were rules. They may be more complex than in industry or war, but Stephen felt confident it was still about order and progress being maintained.

Cancer was an exception. Cancer was a ruthless bastard which cared nothing for rules or for order; its core purpose was deterioration. Regardless of who it struck, cancer was always crude and inhumane with complexities so far off the charts it was impossible to understand. There was no order. There was no progress. No overall redeeming objective for cancer.

Despite the constant warnings over the past three years, anytime the word remission came into discussion it inevitably created a false hope for every member of the Lantz family. Stephen and Sarah had seen the monster recoil and seemingly leave their daughter, forever in their hopeful hearts. Initially, the days following Hailey’s checkups were an anxious time spent waiting for results. After several encouraging reports, the checkups became routine and eventually, particularly as they had became less frequent over the past several months, the Lantz family began to see her periodic checkups as just a routine formality.

During Hailey’s last checkup only two weeks prior, Sarah had been entirely convinced that the beast had been defeated, and the thought of its return was something she would not even allow to enter her mind. Even when the doctor became a bit concerned at a reading he took and asked her to bring Hailey back the following week to draw some samples, she wasn’t overly concerned. Sarah absolutely expected the tests to come back negative; she just knew they would.

When the phone call from the oncologist was over, instead of hanging up the phone, Sarah drew her hands to her chest and tried to breathe, failing to take in a full breath. Stephen had arrived halfway through the phone call, placed a faded gray box on the counter’s edge and stood next to his wife. With one arm on her shoulder, he gently placed his other hand on the phone and gradually pulled it from her grasp. Unfeeling of his own physical movements, he calmly and steadily replaced it onto the charging station.

Stephen gripped the kitchen counter and stared into the blankness of the off-white sink. He couldn’t decide whether to be angry or crushed. The only thing preventing him from screaming was the overwhelming urge to sob. Instead, he stood with his fingers nearly penetrating the solid counter top. Had the counter been made of a softer laminate he would have crushed through the grain and ripped out the sink. This would have been followed by him hurling the sink through the roof, punching out each double-pane window and smashing his foot through every piece of drywall in the house. Much to his disappointment, the Corian counter top held firm in its place.

Shifting between speaking way too fast and then stopping for long pauses to breath, cough, and cry, Sarah did her best to recount the conversation to Stephen. He stood, patience stretched beyond parameters of reason, trying to collect as much information as he could. Through her tears he latched on to key phrases like, “needs to be admitted to the hospital” and “will have to consider surgery.” He wasn’t sure how much was missed between his wife’s struggling report and the clouding of his own mind before Sarah dragged herself to the dining room and found a chair to collapse into.

Stephen looked to the dining room where his wife continued to cry. Rebecca had returned and blanketed both arms around Sarah. He saw the tears flowing from her eyes as well. He watched as Rebecca wiped her own cheeks before clenching Sarah’s hands into her own. They both bowed their heads and Rebecca began to pray out loud. “Dear heavenly father. We come before you…”

Stephen turned away. He still couldn’t process the news. They had beaten this monster. How could it have come back? Each of their doctors had warned them of these risks but those were caveats, something they had to say. How could this be happening again? Why was it that after everything they had gone through, everything Hailey had gone through, their family still couldn’t catch a break? Stephen closed his eyes and tried listening to his mother’s words for something, anything that could give him a breath of hope.

Rebecca continued, “We humble ourselves before you, Lord. We confess before you, Father. We throw ourselves at your mercy, oh God. We…”

Enough! He couldn’t listen to another word. Stephen opened his eyes and turned away in disgust. His mother’s god was obviously asleep at the wheel. If he wasn’t, and his mother’s comments about God being in control of all things was true, then it was even worse. Then he could take the blame for the return of Hailey’s cancer.

It would be nice to have someone to blame. Someone to be mad at. Something to hate for all of this.

But he couldn’t. As angry and upset as Stephen was, he didn’t have the energy in his heart for hate. Devastated, numb and mentally exhausted, he looked down and gripped the edges to test the counter top’s resistance once again.

“You will not quit! You will not stop! You will finish this race!”

The familiar abruptness of the tone yanked his attention from the difficult memory. He knew the style but it was completely out of context.

“You have worked for this. You have trained for this. And now, you will execute your mission.” The man’s voice barked each word at each passing runner.

Stephen turned to see through the thinning crowd and observed the most militant race motivator he could have imagined. The man had the freshly cut ridge of a flat top haircut with closely shaved sides that drew a faint line between skin and hairline. His eyes were aged but sharp and intentional. His body, which Stephen noticed was at rigidly tense definition of rest, appeared to be fit but worn from decades of service. The man’s morning t-shirt was a faded brown and the hip-tight gray shorts could only be military issue from a time before people walked around with cameras in their pockets. He stood atop an immaculately cut lawn. What stood out was not the perfectly unspeckled sea of green blades. Instead, what caught Stephen’s attention was the perfectly cut right angles of grass on the edge of the curb. A feat which could have only been accomplished by someone who was enough of a perfectionist to take the time to raise one side of the lawn mower’s wheels along the curb so as to achieve the exact right angle for each blade of grass located between the yard’s edge and the curb. The man had all the characteristics of the stereotypical Marine drill sergeant and from the sound of his rhetoric, he clearly believed he was still instructing basic training recruits. How Stephen appreciated these men. A smile formed as he knew he could never forget looking up at that fresh face of that young Marine who dragged him from that Iraqi building where certain death awaited him.

This particularly energized Marine, not so young and certainly not fresh, stood apart from the other well-wishers and their heartfelt encouragements. While Stephen felt a comradery, the abrupt revision of the crowd’s motivational tactic by this man was too much for many of runners. It was like trying to put a toddler to sleep and quietly swapping Mozart with Metallica. Whether the Marine meant to or not, his gruff and blunt voice cascaded intimidation upon the passing runners. As they hurried by, their heads remained locked in an uneasy forward direction as if they knew that a single instant of eye contact would invite this man’s wrath. And when it came to wrath, the man clearly had reserves. The spectacle distracted Stephen because it reminded him of teenagers scrambling off an enlistment bus and meeting their new drill instructors. It was that point where the first real wave of fear overtook them. Like those recruits, the runners were scared. But the desired result ensued as any thoughts of quitting had been harshly put down.

The Marine continued, “You know what pain is. You have seen it before. Pain is not stronger than you. You are stronger than pain. You will not quite! You will not stop! You will finish…”

Stephen quickened his pace and found himself relieved and disappointed as the man’s voice trailed off; becoming aware that the Marine’s anti-motivational speech was not just loud and out of place, but on repeat mode.

Like all soldiers, Stephen had spent his time under the indignant care of a temperamental drill sergeant. While their delivery was legendary; though perhaps infamous was a more appropriate description, the reason they were effective in producing efficient warfighters was because they spoke truth. Nobody wanted to believed it while the growling voice of what sounded like a homicidal maniac rained down atop them; raining down not necessarily being a metaphor because like llamas, drill sergeants had a tendency to be unconcerned with useless courtesies like not spitting at the person they were speaking to. But when a drill sergeant told someone they were being hard on them because they wanted to save lives, it was actually very true.

Stephen had to admit that while the old Marine’s ways may have been foreign to the environment, the man was still saying what needed to be said. Every runner at this stage had to be feeling some pain by now and more than a few were probably considering whether or not they were up to the task. The early miles had been filled with cheering and the hope of great expectations for successful outlooks upon the day. Perhaps for many people, this stage of the race required less exhilaration and instead, a crude dose of reality. Maybe what was needed was the direct, pointed approach. Something with a more influential tone, a dose of harsh truth. While the Marine’s commands were abrasive, they were nothing if they were not true. His fatigued mind began to meander.

Truth. That guy’s got some truth, alright. At least, true enough for him. But he’s not the one with another nine miles to go. Well then, you old jarhead, you keep a good grip on your truth there. But then, what was truth. Hold on. Wait. Isn’t that a line from the Bible somewhere?

With curiosity piqued by the wandering of his mind’s restlessness, he remembered that Sarah now had a Bible. He could look that whole truth thing up later when he got home. If he ever made it home, because at this point nine more miles might as well be ninety. But then, how long would that take him to find one sentence within the entire Bible? Since delegating was a gentler path than labor, he considered an easier alternative. His buddy Ray would know where in the Bible that whole speech about truth was. He’d ask him the next time he saw him.

Yeah, I’ve got quite a long list of things to talk to Ray about. For starters, like why the hell am I running this thing!

“I understand that you were told you should come by and see me. But Stephen, what I want to know is, do you feel you need to be here?”

Stephen continued to look around the small office for some hint of who this man was supposed to be and why he had been pushed so hard to sit down and spend an hour with him. It was the first time Stephen had been back on a military base since leaving the Army. He had thought arriving as a civilian would be uncomfortable to him, like not knowing if he was still welcomed or if he even belonged in an environment once so familiar to him. Those concerns left the moment he drove into the chute of the base checkpoint and flashed the retiree ID card he had received as a medically retired service member. Anxiety departed and Stephen felt comforted to once again be under the controlled and purposeful surroundings of the base. He liked that the Army didn’t waste space with distracting aesthetics. It gave him an opportunity to see the real estate for what it was and what it was worth. Let the Air Force spend money on decorating barracks with the latest in spring foliage. He was content to have drab buildings if it meant having more money for ammunition.

“A man can never have too much red wine, too many books, or too much ammunition.” It was a Rudyard Kipling quote. One of many that Stephen had learned from Hilton. Kipling, of course, being another of Hilton’s English poets. Nevertheless, after that day in Fallujah, Stephen had a grand appreciation for the Brit’s abiding wisdom. Driving around the base, Stephen felt safe, he felt content, he felt at home.

The office of his designated appointment however, was another matter. Discomfort stabbed at him from all directions as awkward silence rested in the air; only periodically interrupted by the creaking of the black metal-framed chair that was resisting his lounge.

“Do you feel you need to be here?” the voice pressed.

Raham “Ray” Thimba, or Counselor Ray as he asked Stephen to call him, sat motionless in a gray and padded swivel back chair. The bald, black man had a firm and fit look. Thin, rimless glasses rested on tight cheekbones that suggested his body fat was close to the single digit range. The man’s stare possessed the confidence and intensity to penetrate bone and tissue and peer directly into one’s soul, yet do so with such a calming reassurance that it would not cause an eyelash to flicker.

His office was surrounded by family photos of what looked to be Ray’s grown children chasing toddlers from scene to scene. Stephen suspected Ray might also be an advocate of Kipling’s philosophies because the close perimeters of his office were covered by bookshelves that showed the wear of having been through more than one garage sale. He saw books on psychology, religion, philosophy, business, and leadership. There were self-help books, text books and an entire row of large, generic white binders. Behind the crowded stacks of literary gumbo surrounding the office, he could see a calming stillwater-blue painted wall which inspired a tranquil impression of floating on an ocean or staring up at cloudless sky. Ray’s office was quite the contrast from the flat white walls the rest of the Army Social Services building but the calming ambiance did not help Stephen relax. Against the wall and behind a couple other family frames, Stephen could see a subtle picture of Ray crossing a large yellow and blue ground banner marked ‘FINISH’. It looked significant to Stephen, like it was an important race but its lack of prominence among the other pictures which made a clear display of the man’s priorities.

Briefly meeting Ray’s stare, Stephen responded, “I told you, I have to be here.” His eyes immediately returned to an inspection of the room. “Shouldn’t there be a couch in here?”

“I’m a counselor, not a shrink. And besides, when do you think it was that this man’s Army got so concerned about our comfort that they would allocate financial resources for a couch?”

“Right, good point.” Stephen thought about how vulnerable a couch would have been. He preferred the metal frame chair that desperately needed to be lubricated.

“You didn’t come here for a couch though.” His countenance carried an unassuming confidence to it, like he knew something everyone else was still trying to figure out. Stephen felt as if the man was completely content with his world and unshakable by anything which Stephen might say to him.

Unsettled by Ray’s comfort, Stephen shot back, “Right. Like I said, I’m here because I have to be here. My CO told me to be here.”

“Stephen, you’re formally separated from the Army now. I’m here as a favor for a mutual friend but you’re here as a guest. Nobody is forcing you to be here. You don’t report to Colonel Hayes anymore.”

Stephen noted that Ray didn’t call him by his last name, the typical military method of reference. “Well, if you know Colonel Hayes then you know separation from service does nothing to slow him down from giving orders.” Stephen replied with a lighthearted smile.

“Yes. Yes, I can appreciate that. Colonel Hayes is not a man easily said no to. But commanders often resort to giving orders when their strong suggestions get ignored.” Ray’s tone was not accusing but he didn’t mince words.

Stephen ignored the reminder of how long he had blown off Colonel Hayes’ request that he meet with Ray. After hastily completing the post-combat debrief sessions during his physical recovery, Stephen had reasoned there wasn’t much left to talk about.

“I overheard the receptionist calling you when I arrived. So you’re a doctor?” Stephen looked around the room again. There were no plaques on the walls, no degrees, no certifications.

“It’s not a medical degree.”

“So a PhD? You’re one of those academic types. Lots of schooling under the belt?”

Not wanting to distract from the conversation, Ray cracked the window of his educational career and closed it just as quickly. “Some things philosophy. Some things theology, if you’re resume curious.”

“Theology? So, you’re a preacher?” Stephen was beginning to see the bigger picture of why his commander so strongly suggested the visit.

“Guilty, as charged.” The tone of Ray’s response mirrored Stephen’s speed and directness. He continued, “That doesn’t bother you does it? Should I ask how long it’s been since you attended a church?”

Unsure if the question was actually a question or more of a mocking of the question’s stereotype, Stephen paused and leaned back, purposefully giving the chair time to let out a long screech before deciding to take the bait. “No. But my mother does. She loves it and I’ll admit there seem to be plenty of nice people there.” Feeling a twinge of guilt and unsure of where it came from, he defensively added sarcastically, “So, maybe I’m here for a sermon?”

“Well, I only preach on Sundays. Today being a Friday, I do believe you are out of luck. But I’m pretty sure you didn’t come here to hear a sermon either. Did you, Stephen?”

The smile which emerged over Ray’s face was comforting and almost, brotherly. Stephen relaxed with a shrug and said, “Obviously not. Colonel Hayes is not just my former commander. He’s from the San Antonio area so he was around the hospital a good bit during my recovery at BAMC. We picked up a friendship along the way. He’s just being protective after everything that happened in Iraq and since coming home.”

“You’ve had some struggles since your deployments?”

“What? Which part? You mean recovering from getting blown up, shot, catching concrete boulders, losing a job or fighting my daughter’s cancer?” Stephen didn’t even attempt to contain his sarcasm this time. “No, no real struggles. I’m all good, doc.”

Ray nodded, leaned back in his chair and interlocked his fingers across his stomach, physically suggesting to Stephen that it was still his turn to speak.

Subconsciously receiving the instruction, Stephen continued dismissively. “I get that everyone is concerned about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I did the debrief, sat through the lectures, even read the brochures. We’ve all had our struggles, right? I’ve got my life and it has its problems, the same as anyone else does. Besides, I know guys who have it a lot worse than I do. Guys who left more of themselves over there than they brought back.” Stephen’s words trailed off as he thought about the ambush on that Iraqi roadside.

“But PTSD is not something you’re really worried about, is it?” Ray interjected.

“You ever seen any action, doc? Should I call you doc, maybe prof? I’m a little lost here.”

“Ray is fine.”

“Sure. So what about you, Ray? Any time in theater?”

Ray was carefully reserved with his response. “A little.”

Stephen caught the aloofness and called him on it. “Come on, go ahead and humor me. This is unofficial, right? So it’s okay to have a two-way road here.”

Ray gave a satisfied smile and took in a breath with pursed lips in consideration of just how much he was willing to divulge to this new patient; who like many, did not consider himself a patient. “Last action I saw was Panama, oh… late ’80’s, I believe.”

Genuinely curious Stephen replied, “Panama?”

“Yeah. I got a chance to spend Christmas time down there. They sent us Rangers in to snag a base in Rio Hato.”

Stephen thought about Mayweather, “Rangers. Holy crap, I really can’t get away from you guys, can I?”

“Say again?” Ray said with a perplexed look.

“Nothing. So you were combat arms?”

Ray sat back with a pleasing memory panning across his vision. “Yep. 11-Bravo. I’m an infantryman, through and through.”

“Well that’s something I can appreciate.” Stephen said with a notably more relaxed tone.

“That may have something to do with Colonel Hayes being so adamant about us meeting.” Ray unclasped his hands and leaned forward in his chair. “So you see, Stephen. Maybe I’m someone who can appreciate, if even just a fragment, the difficulties you faced over there and the challenge it may be for you to come back from that type of world, while attempting to forge on over here, at home. Warriors, we’re good at what we do. But we’re not always best at leaving our work at the office.”

Stephen straightened his chair, corrected his posture and looked across the desk. His gaze looked behind the rimless lenses to meet compassionate eyes extending an invitation of friendship.

Ray broke the chill forming in the air, “It’s been a tough road, hasn’t it?”

“Of course, it has. But which of us hasn’t had a tough road? Besides the adventures of life, the economy’s been in the crapper and it doesn’t look like its getting better anytime soon.”

“But your daughter, she’s doing better?”

Recognizing the counselor had done his homework and would have been given access to certain personnel files and commander reports, Stephen rested his guard and resolved himself to the fact that Ray certainly knew a lot about him already. Besides, the thought of his daughter brought a smile to his face.

“Right, Hailey. She’s our nine year old. Yes, she’s doing much better. We finished off her last treatments recently and they were pretty rough this time. It was harder than the first time around. A lot more nausea and sleepless nights.”

“But you got a chance to be next to her during the rough parts?” Ray added a nugget of gold to remind Stephen of things he could count as blessings.

“Yeah. Plus she’s older now and we had more support.”

Ray injected to keep Stephen talking, “An elementary school girl has a lot more friends than a toddler does.”

“Exactly. People from her class that we didn’t even know were visiting her. She and my wife, Sarah, also have friends at my mother’s church now, Hailey has a Sunday school class she’s in and those families were really sweet. They’ve been a huge help.”

“Sounds like your wife and daughter are part of that community. So it’s not just your mother’s church anymore?”

Stephen laughed, “I guess not. Apparently, this Jesus thing is infectious. But don’t try to convert me, Father. I’m vaccinated.”

Ray lifted his arms as if showing he was unarmed. “I only preach on Sundays.” They both gave a brief laugh. “But your mom’s church and all that stuff, it’s not something you’re interested in?”

“No, not in the least. It’s safe to say you won’t find me walking into a church on purpose.”

“That’s perfectly fine.” Ray responded unobtrusively. “But I heard you emphasize how much the people from the church were a huge help. Was there more?”

“Yeah, they’ve been an encouragement for all of us, certainly. Through the toughest months of the treatments, Sarah took over Hailey’s day-to-day care. I was able to make most of the doctor appointments, but I really needed to hit it hard to get this new business we started off the ground.”

Stephen continued, “A few months ago, my mother introduced to me to a guy from her church. I think she said he was a deacon or something. Regardless, this guy is a really successful businessman. He built a small empire out of repairing eighteen wheeler trucks.”

“Impressive.” Ray said.

“I was impressed, that’s for sure.” Stephen continued, “Well, this guy gave me all kinds of time. We went for coffee and gave me tons of advice: how to set up the business, form a company legally, what type of insurance to get, all the business sort of stuff I never used to pay attention to, but he knew I needed it. Then he started inviting me to lunch with other people, real estate developers that he knew.”

“He helped you network? That had to be good.”

“It was golden. These were exactly the type of people I wanted to meet. They were the ones who could help us get the business going.” Stephen sounded reassured, almost as if he were about to get excited about how this story played out, but his voice trailed as he finished his words. “It just hasn’t entirely worked out that way yet.”

“But it still sounds like this guy was a major help.” Ray assured.

“He was. As a result, we have an official, registered real estate appraisal company: S&S Commercial Appraisers, LLC.”

“S&S… for Stephen and Sarah?” Ray said while his eyebrow tilted in a show of curiosity.

“Yeah. I know, I know. But it’s real estate appraisal. It’s not a marketing company.”

“Hey, hey. There ain’t no judgment on creativity here. If I had a private practice it would likely be called, Counselor Ray’s Private Practice.”

“Counselor Ray’s Private Practice, LLC.” Stephen suggested.

“Probably.” Ray agreed. “But then, being a military guy, I’d have to make an acronym out of it.”

“And if you hired others it would have to be Counselor Ray and Associate’s Practice.” Stephen smiled. “Kinda invites people to bring their, uhm, their crap to you. Doesn’t it?”

They paused for a moment before a burst of joint laughter erupted through the room. Jovial tones of relief emerged from both men; Ray’s propelled by the pleasure of seeing his patient relax and let out a good laugh, while Stephen’s came from a unexpected release of pent up emotion.

Wiping a tear of laughter from his eye, Ray said, “Okay, okay. Now that we’ve made it clear we both suck at marketing, back to your business. That’s a pretty good start you guys have there, Stephen. So what’s S&S doing today?”

Stephen’s previous cheer evaporated and his voice trailed lower to nearly a mumble, “Well, you know. Things are still tough and the economy makes it even more difficult to find work. But I’m working. Early morning starts and tireless days do enough to keep food on the table. It’s good though. I think we’re building a descent reputation from the referral business I’m getting.”

“Any recharge time for you in all that work?”

“Not at the moment, no. But I’m working on that too. Trying to find ways to make extra income by duplicating my efforts, and maybe sooner than later I’ll find a way to balance it all out.”

“Duplicating your efforts?” Ray inquired.

“Yeah. I’m hiring subcontractors to work for me. I know some really good people in my industry who need work. They’re not willing to completely go out on their own and start their own company, but they’ll take work when it comes around. A little guidance from me and I send them off on the jobs that I can’t get to. I’ve got a few people I’m keeping busy close to forty hours a week now.”

Ray sensed that Stephen seemed to talk a little faster as he described working with his contract employees. There was a pleasure point that was subtle, but identifiable. Ray decided to prod it along further, “So you’re getting a chance to pour into others? Is that something you enjoy?”

“I think I do. I have some of them working on business development, and others focus on appraisals. A lot of them are getting stretched because I can’t double-check all of their work like a large corporation might. Some like that freedom but others get freaked out by it. I enjoy watching them discover something new about themselves and then I just make sure they stay on track. Yeah, you could say it’s rewarding.”

“And all of them are full-time advocates for S&S?” Ray pointed out.

“Yeah, I think so. I sure hope so.”

Taking a soft, slow turn Ray steered Stephen into the more personal depths of what motivated him, “So how does Sarah feel about S&S?”

“She gets it. She’s on board.” Stephen said flippantly.

“And you guys get along fine despite the hours away?”

“Yeah, of course. I mean, don’t get me wrong. We’ve had our problems before.” Stephen admitted, “Plenty of times in the past where we struggled to stay in the same room together without breaking into a cage match.”

“But better now?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Getting better. I think we’ve come a long way. I’m not really sure what happened or when it even happened but at some point, it seems like she just really started to be my fan again.”

“Out of the blue? What did that do for you?”

“I’m not sure I’ve thought about that before. It just sort of happened one day.”

“Then this may be a good time. How does it feel to have Sarah as your biggest fan?”

“Honestly, it makes it harder for me to get mad at her. I think I did start to realize, a little while back, that there were times I was just looking for a fight. It used to be that I would have this whole plan of attack ready to go before we even started arguing. So I’m ready with an arsenal, ready to unload on her. Then it was like, I would say something and she just didn’t respond the way I expected her to.”

“She was calm? More calm than you were expecting?”

“It was crazy. Like from one week to the next, it was all different. She stopped blowing up, she stopped accusing me of things, she just… I don’t know it was like she started appreciating me again; I think. We’d just talk things through and if I started to get heated, she would calm down even more. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Sarah’s no push-over. She would still make her point, but it wasn’t with the anger I was used to having thrown at me. Eventually, I stopped planning what I was going to say to her. I stopped planning how I would argue, how I would attack. I just didn’t need it. I didn’t want it. I don’t know. Now, it’s like I’m doing the same thing and its… it’s good. I know it sounds strange but things just started working.”

“She disarmed you? By loving you?” Ray’s words came with a smile that revealed it was not the first time he had heard of a wife winning over her husband.

“Yeah, it sounds sort of cheesy when you say it like that… but, yeah. I think that’s pretty much what happened.”

“So you guys are on the same page, for the most part?” Ray hinted.

“Yeah, we’ve got this good little fire-team thing going, like a partnership. She had heaps of great ideas about the business; which I would’ve never even done in the first place if she hadn’t come up with the idea. We also had this big issue with the IRS going on for a while. I guess it wasn’t that big, but it was a lot of money for us. She did some research online and we figured out how to extend payments to make them manageable. Things like that.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a pretty strong partner there.”

“I mean we’re still struggling financially and all this stuff going on with the costs of insurance right now is brutal. But we’ve got money coming in the door and now we’re working together to figure things out.”

Getting the impression that Stephen’s positive words weren’t being matched by his heart, Ray pried further, “So what’s holding you back?”

“I don’t know. Sarah’s great and all, but it’s like I can’t enjoy our marriage. I’m surrounded by all this other stuff and every stress I have is just a mountain on my back. I feel like I never get a chance to finish anything I start.” Stephen conceded.

“How do you feel?”

“I feel like everything is out of order. Like I don’t know which direction I should be going in or why I’m going there. And then, if I do figure out what I’m supposed to be doing, I don’t know where to start. Honestly, sometimes I feel like I need to run, run away from it all. I mean, I’m not the kind of guy who would leave his family or toss out his responsibilities, but there are so many times I feel like I’m failing and I just want to quit and run away.”

“Would that fix anything?” Ray challenged.

“I don’t know, Ray. But that’s not a real scenario, I know that. The real situations are the ones like Hailey’s health and my marriage. And both of those are going pretty well now.”

“But you don’t feel like you can fully appreciate that, can you?” Ray asked.

Stephen looked away and murmured, “I just need to keep a handle on things and it’ll be fine.”

Ray could tell Stephen didn’t fully believe the words he was saying. He wanted to, but Ray had seen several people who said they knew their life was great. And more than a few of them washed those great lives down the drain because they couldn’t grasp the joy right in front of them. He could see talking about Sarah was a challenge for Stephen. Their relationship was improving but it was pretty obvious that Stephen was having a slow time adjusting to Sarah’s new approach. She was taking huge strides in the right direction, but her husband couldn’t move at the same pace. “But things really are better between you and Sarah?”

“I’m pretty sure they are.” Stephen replied unsurely.

Ray sat in silence to see if Stephen would go any further.

After a brief moment of thought, Stephen drew a deep breath and spoke again, “It’s me, isn’t it? I mean the issues that are still there between Sarah and me. I’m the problem, aren’t I?”

Ray gave him an out, “Don’t push it. These things can take some time. You both want the marriage and you’re willing to work for it. Just let it happen.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means…” Ray didn’t want to overwhelm with his words, “Well, let’s just say there will be times when it’s best not to talk so she can see how you’re really feeling.”

Stephen grunted, “So what am I supposed to do? I’m not much for expressing my feelings to begin with, how am I supposed to do that without talking?”

“Stephen, in those times just hold her. Just hold her, man.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll see about that. So what do I do, you know, for me?” Stephen asked somewhat sheepishly.

Encouraged with the way their brief introductory session had gone and concerned to not push his new patient away, Ray decided to hold off from exploring some of the lingering effects of Stephen’s darker struggles. He felt confident they could journey down those roads in their next sessions, extremely confident there would be another session. “You need time.”

“Time?” Stephen replied, lacking any confidence.

“Time. And maybe something else.” A thought formed in Ray’s mind that brought a grin to his face. “You say you feel like running away, right?”

“Well, I feel that way sometimes. But it’s just a feeling. I wouldn’t ever abandon my family.”

“Right. What if instead of running away from something, you ran towards something?”

“Okay, but running towards what?” Stephen requested

“Stephen, in the Army you had a mission, right?”

“Of course.”

“In the Army, you were told exactly what to do, when to do it and where you should be when the mission is complete.”

“Yeah, of course. We don’t move without orders.” Stephen answered.

Ray continued, “Life isn’t much different, it’s just that you are the one who has to call the missions of your own life. Sometimes you have a choice in which missions you take. Sometimes you don’t. And just like most missions, the plan changes once the action starts. But you’re still moving towards a series of designated outcomes; be it recovering from a health crisis, growing a business, working to achieve a happy marriage. You might get past a particular outcome but your missions don’t end, you’ll always have a new mission. And the most important missions include your family. Those are the ones that focus on their physical health, their mental health, and yes- even their spiritual health. But before you can lead them, you need to know you can lead yourself. Once you have that, you’ll get rid of a lot of the anxiousness that comes with the insecurities we all carry. Get rid of that and you’ll find yourself enjoying things a lot more. Once you have a few small wins, you’ll get your feet under you and start to take some joy from the mission.”

“Sounds intriguing. Let me see if I got this, get a hold of the big picture, learn to appreciate the journey and smile at life’s little moments. Is that the plan? Then yeah, I can see where you’re going with this. Doesn’t sound like brain surgery. I don’t think.”

“You need to remind yourself that you’re executing a mission. And you’re doing whatever needs to be done to accomplish that mission. If something doesn’t go according to plan, that’s okay; adapt and overcome. But you have to be able to accept that not everything has to go according to plan in order to achieve the mission but that’s okay.”

“Alright, let’s say I’m on board with this concept. So how do I get there?”

Ray sat back in his padded chair and folded his hands across his flat stomach. “I want to propose a challenge to you. Something that will test you physically. But more than physical it will probably test you at a greater degree mentally.”

“I thought you were going to say we need to start doing sessions. You know, discuss the messed up stuff in my brain and work through my ‘issues’.”

Ray insisted, “Oh no, don’t for a minute think we’re going to skip that fun. We’re going to spend all kinds of time in that scrambled brain of yours.”

“That’s going to be fun.” Stephen sighed.

“But first, I want to give you a mission. You’ll have to work towards this objective. But when you’re done,” Ray’s rocked in his chair as white teeth flashed in satisfaction, “I’m pretty certain you’ll be at a point where you can start to appreciate accomplishments. Who knows, maybe that’s the breakthrough you’ve been needing to start seeing all the great things you’ve got going in your life.”

“How do I know when I’m at that point?”

“You’ll know alright.”

Surprised by Ray’s assurance, Stephen questioned him, “You make it sound as if there will be a big sign that’ll tell me I’m healed or something.”

“Oh, there will be.” Ray smiled mischievously, “In big bold letters. And it’ll be marked FINISH LINE.”

Mile 18

Another white sign slowly came into view on the ground ahead. The number eighteen written on it gave Stephen a small burst of encouragement in knowing he was approaching the latter miles of the race. The momentary encouragement was rudely interrupted by a sharp stiffness in his lower back which forced him to arch toward the rear and into an awkward angle. Feeling a twinge of relief, he continued running in the odd position. He felt he probably could have finished the race in this contorted position but Stephen assumed that he looked so outrageous it would entice a course photographer to make him the poster child for the post-race gag reel. He declared vanity the victor and straightened his back, immediately causing the tightness to return.

While his pace slowed significantly from earlier in the morning, he was now passing several other runners. He inadvertently stared at some of the pained expressions people were making with each step. It occurred to him that he had been running all morning and was just now passing these individuals. While he knew there were some people who chose to walk the marathon, they couldn’t have been this far ahead of him. Instead, he realized that these were runners who had switched to walking and it did not appear to be by choice.

The road, seemingly conscience of an opportunity exposed by Stephen’s weariness, curved to the right and shifted into a steep incline. Stephen made the turn with an excessive bodily lean that would have made even the best special effects artist jealous. Rounding out the turn and straightening his posture, he stared in disbelief at the scene before him.

Both sides of the road ahead of him were littered with broken down runners in a strange apocalyptic version of the race course. They were scattered and separate but seemed close enough together for Stephen to wonder if something had impacted them as a group. He saw some people leaning over the side of the road in the obvious aftermath of reliving every ounce of food they had consumed over the previous twelve hours. Others appeared to be attempting some modified version of a calf stretch; which, based upon the expressions on their face, seemed to look more like a self-induced torture session. While a few of the runners were getting assistance from others, most were left to suffer on their own, sprawled across the curbs while others lay helplessly out along the grassy perimeters.

There was a bike on the side of the road marked “EMT.” Stephen knew things had gone poorly for some runner when all he could see was the back of the medic crouched on the ground taking the pulse of a woman lying flat on her back. Her friend was speaking calmly to her and the medic looked as though he was pulling the radio from his back pocket.

Making the call for backup. Never a good sign.

Stephen knew the end of her race had arrived. He selfishly wondered if the medic would continue to ride ahead after the lady was picked up. Not that he felt he needed it right then, but Stephen had become quite familiar with the value of having a good medic nearby and he wasn’t overly confident about running too far ahead of this one.

Stephen had served with several medics before his deployment and his faith in them had always been high. In a post- September 11th world, training routines for Cavalry troops were no normal day at the office as injuries increased with their drilling intensity. Even over his weekend stints with the National Guard, the constant presence of a medic gave him a comfort, if not a little extra shot of bravery. But it wasn’t until Iraq that Stephen came to fully appreciate the heart that drives a medic to do their work.

Stephen pained to remember that young medic who looked over him before chunks of that building began falling on their makeshift medical site. Just the site of that kid’s pale face had given him a boost of courage in the scariest moment of his life. Despite his young age, the boy had comforted Stephen and given him hope through his calm and professional demeanor. When the rubble came down from that errant mortar round, the medic had instinctively joined Mayweather and provided a human shield to protect his patients. It had worked. He had saved the life of the unconscious Darnell Waters. At that pivotal moment, the medic had written a check for the protection of the soldiers entrusted into his care. It was a check written for the amount of his life. It was a check, which on that day, was cashed.

Stephen was later informed that a heavy piece of the building’s concrete hit the brave medic in the back of his neck and caused a cervical fracture. This led to a sudden loss of nerve supply throughout the entire body, including the heart and blood vessels, causing his blood pressure to drop below a sustainable level. “Spinal Shock”, they had told him. But Stephen had seen the look in those bright blue eyes and knew the cause of his death was nothing less than willful sacrifice.

Stephen had received a broken finger from the mortar episode, which was icing on the cake after the plethora of injuries he had sustained from the ambush inside that hell house. Nevertheless, the inequity of loss from the mortar had disturbed Stephen. His ability to write well, compared to Mayweather’s ability to ever walk again, or the medic’s life was difficult for him to reconcile. But war was about inequities and that was something he would have to grips with if he was to honor the sacrifices made.

Stephen would often bend the finger as far as it could go, knowing it would forever be limited to a range of about half of what it should be. He didn’t mind too much. It was more of a memory than an impediment. That’s not to say that a broken pointer finger wasn’t an annoying hindrance to a person’s everyday life. In the digital age where typing is frequently necessary to engage in society’s daily communication, the lack of one’s index finger could be a major nuisance. Attempts at cooking, playing sports, or simply reading a book all become reminders of just how important the dangly digit was. But when a person emerges from a mountain of concrete and devastated bodies with lacerations, a punctured lung caused by three broken ribs and a bullet hole in the leg, the broken pointer finger does not cause a lot of stress. During his time in recovery, Stephen had often forgotten about the two inch brace securing his pointer to his middle finger.

He often used the finger as an analogy for explaining their journey with Hailey’s health. It helped supportive loved ones to understand that families of cancer survivors always had to have their antennas on high alert. It was a habit learned during the high-risk period of treatment and even during remission, the extreme diligence against germs was not a switch easily turned off. So when Hailey’s treatment for her second round with cancer was nearly completed, the family was still on high alert. After she became sick with a cold for nearly a week her physician agreed with Sarah’s urging and quickly admitted her to the hospital. It turned out to be a wise call as the stubborn case of bronchitis had quickly developed into pneumonia. But to the Lantz family, pneumonia was like that broken finger. It was something to be taken seriously. But even when treatment included additional tests to ensure the cancer had not spread into her vital organs, pneumonia, like a broken finger, was not a death sentence.

Stephen and Sarah alternated nights at the hospital over the next few days while Hailey rested and remained under observation. After the first night’s full rest on some powerful steroids, Hailey had been feeling well again. Nevertheless, another couple of nights at the hospital were ordered by a cautious doctor who had more concern over his patient’s medical history than the cost of hospital beds or the preferences of non-medical decision-makers in the business office. The Lantzes didn’t put up too much of a fuss, especially since insurance deductibles were usually met within the first couple of months each year.

That Friday evening found some good friends with kids Hailey’s age able to convince them to take an evening off while they brought over board games and sleeping bags for an overnight stay with Hailey at the hospital. Stephen relented as Sarah reminded him that their daughter was 11 years old now and needed more than friendly staff and periodic visits by the orderly who made balloon animals to keep her spirits high. Besides, Hailey would be coming home on Sunday and her parents needed their rest. Adding to the list of reasons to take a break; Stephen was training for a marathon and had a long training run planned for that Saturday morning. Sarah commented that he had been so dedicated to running the upcoming marathon that there was genuine concern he would take to logging his training miles among the halls of the hospital. Hailey’s doctor suggested the hospital wasn’t equipped for the way Stephen would smell after a three hour run and adamantly gave his blessing to their friends’ offer for Stephen and Sarah to go home.

There was a hint of guilt among the Lantz household as they ate well without Hailey. Sarah had composed a tasty penne-pasta dinner for Stephen and his parents. She spent the afternoon making a meatless marinara brought together a symphony of colors: thin slices of red, green and orange bell peppers were mixed with mushrooms. Mixed into the medley were thin garlic slivers and sautéed spinach with minced sun-dried tomatoes. Stephen enjoyed his wife’s rejuvenated interest for cooking. Providing an over-exaggerated rub of his waistline, he commented on the need to run the marathon just to keep pace with Sarah’s culinary explorations. Then he grabbed seconds.

Dinner closed out earlier than normal as Rebecca wasn’t feeling particularly well and Stephen had preparations to make. Before the night closed out, he jumped in the car and mapped out the route for the next day’s run. Along the path, he found a partially broken brick wall at the end of a poorly lit road which seemed to serve no apparent purpose other than being good spot for him to leave a bottle of water and sports drink for when he planned to refuel during the next morning’s run.

Arriving home, the comedy of errors began to unfold. Getting to bed early for a full night’s rest did not seem to be too ambitious of a plan. But the military had taught him plans were only good until the shooting began, or in Stephen’s case, until a high-need customer called. Which for this particular customer, on this particular night, might as well have been incoming sniper fire. It took a little over an hour to get the customer’s crisis resolved. From there, he made a mad dash to close out the evening and make it to bed by his predetermined hour. When he finally tucked in for the night, he was only running half an hour behind schedule.

The house logged a couple hours of peace and quiet before a battery in a random smoke alarm expired at 2am; this being, of course, the only time of day at which smoke alarm batteries were permitted to expire. The first chirp was just enough to disturb his slumber, the second beep arrived twenty minutes later and he was able to willfully ignore it. But it was the third and certainly the loudest, which woke him completely. After walking the halls in a concerned, yet unsuccessful effort to determine which alarm was the source of disturbance, he convinced himself that he had imagined the whole thing and went back to bed.

Around 3am that morning, the detector made another chirp followed by a two-second siren that sent Stephen into a frenzy. He immediately identified the blaring culprit, grabbed a ladder and yanked 9v battery from the alarm’s encasement. Heart pounding from the abrupt awakening, he promised himself he would replace the battery the next day. As he climbed off the step ladder, the device defiantly chirped again.

He quickly darted up the ladder and then came down as though he was descending Mount Doom from Tolkien’s Mordor. Stephen stepped off the ladder, this time in his hand he held the smoke detector, wires protruding as a result of its violent separation from the wall. Feeling his body falling asleep as he rested both feet on the solid hardwood ground, he wearily rested the detector on the hallway credenza and made the conscience decision to leave the ladder in the middle of the hallway; thoroughly convincing himself it was so that he would remember the alarm in the morning and not just because he was too lazy to put it back in the closet.

At 3:45 am, Sarah woke, startled, to the sight of the window in their bedroom being opened and her husband hurling something deep into the night air. In a shocked and nervous voice she asked Stephen what was going on. His response was a groggy murmur and the only phrase she could make out was something about a promise to look for a smoke detector tomorrow. Still unsure if her husband was sleep walking, Sarah watched him spill back into their bed.

Suddenly, Sarah’s attention darted to the window. It was a single high pitched beep coming from outside.

“Did you hear that?”

“No. I did not hear anything.” Stephen’s head was so far under his pillow that his voice muffled through the fibers.

“I’m pretty sure I heard a beeping noise.” Sarah’s voice peaked with her curiosity.

“No. You didn’t hear anything,” the rose the voice again.

“Stephen, I think it’s a smoke alarm beeping.”

His head emerged with disheveled hair, “Is it still illegal to use a firearm in a residential neighborhood?”

“What?”

“Cause if that smoke alarm is still beeping, the only thing I haven’t tried is blowing it away.” He lifted his pillow and smashed it atop his head as if he were permanently putting himself out of his misery.

Sarah looked at her exhausted husband. She leaned over and gave the top of the pillow a kiss.

“I’m sure it’s nothing, my sweet.” She smiled and rested her own head gently onto her own pillow.

According to plan, Stephen’s alarm clock went off at six the next morning.

Towards the end of the next morning’s training run, he lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. He thought about the prior night’s chaos and found himself surprised that the sleep deprivation did not affect his running ability at all. He was tired but he easily chalked that up to the fact that he was about to finish an 18 mile run. Stephen turned the final corner and began daydreaming about the International House of Pancakes he passed about five miles back. His thoughts quickly drifted toward the elaborate breakfast he had just earned. Eggs Benedict, Belgium waffles, sausage links, a Denver omelet smothered in cheddar cheese. There were so many choices to consider that his indecisiveness only made him hungrier.

“Then again,” he reasoned aloud, “after an 18 mile run who said he had to choose just one?”

Now rounding the corner of his neighborhood entrance, confidently wiping more sweat from his eyes, Stephen’s feet smoothed across the transition from the road’s warming pavement and onto the familiarity of the sidewalk. Another mile and he would be home, completing the longest training run he had ever done. Race day was a mere few weeks away and finishing this run put him right on track to be ready. The muscles in his legs surged with energy, and he knew he could push through another few miles if he had to.

The gradual incline leading to their home had no chance of standing between Stephen and the king’s breakfast he had planned. He challenged the hill and hit it hard with each burst of his legs and pumped his arms for extra measure. His head was tilted down and he clenched his jaw with the sheer determination of a victorious gladiator. He was about a quarter of a mile away when he saw Sarah standing in their front yard, apparently waiting on him. He thought it was a little out of the ordinary for her to be outside, compared to the normal post-training run greeting he typically received while dripping his way into the kitchen.

Concern began to snare him and his heart raced even faster when he realized she was standing in the front yard holding her arms together, and crying. Thoughts of training, breakfast and even the hill’s incline bolted from of his mind as Stephen sprinted towards his wife. As he got closer he could see the streaks of freshly applied mascara running down her cheeks which told him that whatever was wrong had just happened. Sarah held their cordless phone close to her chest and her chin periodically bounced against it as her body shook uncontrollably.

“Sarah, what’s wrong? Is Hailey alright?” Stephen called out as loud as he could while still sprinting up the hill towards her.

When Sarah didn’t answer, when it became obvious to him that Sarah couldn’t answer, Stephen ran straight up to her and slowed about three feet in front before embracing her. She continued to cry but the release made it clear she had been holding back the strongest of her tears. The touch of her husband’s embrace caused her to drop her resistance and her body went limp under a wave of emotion. Stephen caught her full weight and held her tightly against his own pounding chest. “I’ve got you. Sarah! I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”

His own nerves tingled with panic. He tried to calm them by coaching himself. What’s going on? Keep it together. Don’t let go of her.

Stephen’s internal voice turned to shouting; he had no idea what had happened or how bad it was. All he could think about was the last time he saw Hailey in that hospital bed. Now he questioned why they thought it was alright to even leave her for even a second, much less overnight.

She was in the hospital. She was doing great when we left. What could have possibly happened?

Dark thoughts entered Stephen’s mind and he crushed his eyes shut, shaking his head as if to knock away even the hint of losing Hailey. When he opened them again, he couldn’t make out images in front of him as the pools of his own tears blinded his sight. He held Sarah tighter as she continued to cry.

You are where you need to be. Don’t let go. Just hold her.

Sarah’s hair clung undisturbed to his stubbled chin in the motionless air. Every path his mind went down ended with Hailey and dark thoughts shredded his heart. Devastated by the silent chaos engulfing him, his own emotions threatened panic and anarchy under his thin grip of control. Yet through confusion and panic, he had a sense at that moment, it was best not to say anything, best for him to do nothing. He focused on holding the weight of his wife’s grief on his chest, each splash of her tears onto his bare arms caused his own soul to plummet and plea an aimless prayer to whomever could hear the desperate cries of his heart.

Don’t let go. Just hold her.

He looked to the sky and held Sarah with the frail hints of strength left in him. His own tears made their way down his contorted face. He told himself that he needed to remain calm, quiet and steady for the moment. Amid sweat and tears, he was made fully aware of his own helplessness, and that standing there in his own self-imposed silence was the single hardest thing he had ever done.

Just hold her.

Mile 19

The twin oversized oak-stained doors, designed to give the impression of entering a grand cathedral, were reverently opened by two unassuming ushers in pressed and tailored navy blue blazers. As he crossed through the foyer, the heels of Stephen’s wing tip shoes issued a click with each step along the ceramic tile floor and echoed down the tubes of two perpendicular hallways. Embarrassed to be the one disrupting the dense silence, Stephen blushed. He escorted Hailey across the foyer in her new wheelchair. Still weakened from finishing the latest round of her treatment, they had all agreed now was not the time to test her strength. As he pushed her over the high-polish flooring, Stephen noticed that the wheelchair had a catch and was causing a periodic squeak which seemed to only draw more attention to their entrance.

He leaned over and gave a lighthearted whisper into Hailey’s ear, “Between my shoes and your chair, we’re one instrument shy of having a traveling band.”

Without looking back, Hailey gripped his hand and held on to it. Stephen envisioned her tear-soaked smile as they continued along the hallway until they met up with Sarah. He reached out to her and accepted his wife’s weary embrace.

Rebecca’s fatal heart attack had been sudden and swift. The attending paramedics suggested she likely slept through the brief ordeal and drifted into the night peacefully where she lay. They were told that she hadn’t even stirred enough to wake her husband. Apparently, this was indicative of some fast-acting, pain-concealing chemical response in the brain which allowed her to pass without knowing anything was wrong with her body. Stephen didn’t know how much of that was the paramedics’ accurate assessment or an attempted elaboration to help the distraught family members feel better. For him it didn’t matter. He had a sober reality about death. Stephen knew a quick death was far better than the anticipation of watching as the reaper slowly made his way to your doorway, or a hallway. Stephen had been through that terror before. Instead, his mother had apparently passed in the night without suffering. If it brought an ounce of comfort to anyone, and it did for Sarah and Hailey, then he was perfectly comfortable endorsing the medics’ assessment, even if they included elaborations. He rested a kiss on Sarah’s forehead and the three walked arm in arm towards the narthex of a church he knew was all too unfamiliar to him.

The congregation of Grace Fellowship Church were among the kindest people Stephen had ever met. In previous years, accompanying his mother on errands sometimes resulted in a chance meeting with the someone she knew from church. He had always been amazed at how she could bump into a random congregant regardless of what store or cafe they visited. Often, as if fate’s cup refused to be overfilled, within minutes of seeing someone she knew, others from her congregation would randomly appear. Stephen liked to joke with her about them dropping in from the ceiling rafters. As odd as the scene would become, he couldn’t help but enjoy how every church friend who had haphazardly appeared equally surprised and joyful to see the others. One would have thought they were long lost friends who hadn’t seen each other in years, instead of the actual four days which had passed from the prior Sunday.

His mother’s friends were always generous in their appreciation of his military service; no doubt enlightened by the near permanent placement his name had on Rebecca’s prayer lists. He lovingly harassed his mother for placing the details of his life upon a bulletin board for all to read. But he didn’t know exactly what they were praying for or how many lists his mother had put his name on. What he did know was that the congregants of Grace Fellowship Church were always aware of his deployments, surgeries, recovery progress and even his job hunt. That insight alone made Stephen a bit uncomfortable to be in their presence. It was awkward for him, not just because they seemed to know specifics of his life, but because he became convinced that when they said they were praying for him, they actually were. He didn’t know these people and they weren’t what he would consider personal friends, but they knew him. They didn’t know him just through periodic updates provided by Rebecca, but through the fact that they actively thought about him on a regular basis.

He never felt anything but compassion in their tone, but he had no desire to get to know them any better. Even when they would repeatedly invite him to another random church event, he found it easy to say no without even the burden of coming up with an excuse. Stephen’s agnostic views of religion and faith had been hardened by glimpsing the world through a gritty lens which only drew his attention to its blemishes and imperfections. Experiences of his own life taught him that it was too far of a stretch to buy into the idea of a caring god. If there was some almighty deity up there, Stephen didn’t think he had a much of a care for the broken and messed up people he had created.

Church was his mother’s hobby. He was glad she had somewhere to belong and be social with but to Stephen’s irritation, he watched her use her faith as a crutch. Whenever she struggled with something she would talk to him about “turning it over to the Lord.” She talked to him about things like giving up control and trusting in Jesus for strength, but Stephen lived in the real world and knew he had real people relying on him. In his mind, Stephen didn’t have the luxury of reaching out for a crutch. He felt he had responsibilities and it was up to him to resolve complexities in a practical way.

As he led Hailey and Sarah down the center aisle, Stephen recalled a regretful conversation he had with Rebecca just a couple of weeks before. He had gotten overly worked up when his mother had challenged him on his dismissal of her faith. Unintentionally, Rebecca had released a dam of pent up emotion and Stephen berated her with rhetorical questions about God’s goodness. He questioned where that goodness was during the atrocities being committed by God’s supposed devotees who slaughtered hundreds of innocents in Fallujah? Or The Almighty’s whereabouts when that brutal roadside explosion hit them and the deadly chaos which followed. He told her about the little boy laying under the ruble of that blown out room, a rifle clenched in his hand. A rifle meant to kill Americans. A rifle that could have easily been used to kill him, if some other soldier hadn’t first blown that little boy out of a window. With accusation dripping from every word, he dismissed everything she claimed to stand for, “Where’s God’s goodness in that?”

Rebecca had made an attempt to back off but Stephen couldn’t calm himself. A door had been opened and he continued arguing with her about when he and Waters laid there shot up and ready to die in that random, busted out Iraqi building. He pressed at how that it wasn’t some all-caring deity who opened the twenty foot hole in the exterior; that modern take on parting the Red Sea was done by his brothers in an Abram tank. Rebecca had made a heartfelt plea for her son to look through the pain and see the gifts he had been given, the life he had been blessed with. But Stephen’s ears were closed and he drove a hammer into the nail of his mother’s undeserved punishment by throwing the unanswerable at her. “Tell me Mom, what sort of a ‘loving father’ would let his child get cancer if he could control it. No,” Stephen had protested, “God either didn’t care, or he wasn’t capable. Let me know when you figure out which one it is.”

Her tears had flowed freely at the revelation of just how deep a well her son’s pain drew from. But despite his hostility, she was ready to forgive him as easily as if his eight year old self had dropped a cookie on the floor. She made apologies for upsetting him and reminded him of how a mother’s love endures through difficulties and differences. Stephen acknowledged her amends but only granted a curt, “I’m sorry, too.” While inside, the eight year old boy just wanted to curl into her arms and be comforted by the warmth of his tender mother.

During their next meeting together, Stephen brought the situation up and Ray talked about how it wasn’t entirely uncommon for returning soldiers to respond with an excess of explosiveness when they get upset. Ray wasn’t the type of guy to dish out heavy doses of absolution. But he did help Stephen understand that there was a reason Rebecca had struck such a nerve in their conversation. It actually had nothing to do with the conversation about religion but instead, it was Stephen’s outlet for a lot of other anger he had built up.

“We hold our tempers in public out of fear of a public scorn. The people we’re most comfortable giving that wrath to is actually our loved ones.” Ray had explained with a calming but assertive tone, “It’s like our wall comes down and we can relax with them. Unfortunately for them, some of those walls that come down are there for a purpose. Family members are the ones who are always around and we unconsciously we think they’ll continue to put up with us, regardless of how badly we treat them. Plus we usually have enough history with them to find an unburied hatchet lying around that we can just grab and use. In the end, our loved ones make the best targets.”

“So what you’re saying is that the problem is with me again?” Stephen retorted with an unsaid admission of the obvious.

“Listen Stephen. The things you’ve been through, some of them were pretty bad. I ain’t gonna lie to you. That stuff don’t just go away. That probably won’t ever go away. You need to understand that it’s not your fault. It’s not your fault, but it is your problem. So quit trying to figure it out and instead, just deal with it. And that starts with acknowledging that the pain is still there.”

Back at the church, Stephen looked around and examined the warm tones and soft color schemes designed to enhance the spacious sanctuary. There was pleasantness in the surroundings but the real estate appraiser in him couldn’t help but begin making estimates. His keen eye observed the quality of fixtures, the contours of the craftsmanship, the apparent extra expenditure for architectural design work, nearly offset by misaligned corners which spoke to shoddy drywall placement and a contractor who had probably cut too many corners. Whatever spiritual element was supposed to be present, Stephen could see no further appeal beyond the value of the building. But for some reason all this meant something to Rebecca. It meant a lot to her and while he knew this church was the thing that brought such a dramatic change into her life, it frustrated him that he of all people, couldn’t see what she had seen within these walls. He couldn’t feel what she had felt.

Looking across pews of mourners, he pushed away distant memories asking to come in. They were too much. There were too many for him to not get lost in the shell of them. So he pushed them away. He pushed away the laughter he and Rebecca had over a collapsing lemonade stand. He pushed away their contractually bound pinky swear not to tell his father about staying up way after bedtime watching The Late Show and eating Oreos together in her bed. He pushed away the warm embrace she gave his broken body in that hospital bed the moment she could know for certain he was alive. He hadn’t been aware of how desperately he needed that embrace until that moment; the moment of comfort from her arms he had hoped would never end. There were too many memories with too high an entry price to let any of them stay so he let them wash over him and one by one, he let them drift away. His thoughts settled back to the building.

Why was this place so important to her?

Let it go. She’s gone. Quit trying to figure it out and instead, just deal with it.

Several friends in grief gently touched his arm with offers of condolences as they passed the Lantz family. The pews of the church were filled, with many attendees patiently taking a place in the back and standing against the tiled wall. Stephen led his family to the front row where an elderly man serving as an usher carefully held up the gold and red cord for their reserved seating. He recognized the man as one of the many visitors who had come to see Hailey while she had been in the hospital.

With eyes which told the story of one who had done this job more times than he cared to remember, the usher met Stephen’s shoulder with a tender but purposeful grip. “Stephen, I’m very sorry for you and your family’s loss. She was a great friend who served everyone with a really big heart. I don’t know if you’re aware of how special your mother was to this congregation. She was a reflection of the Lord’s work within us and she wanted others to reflect His love. I tell ya, your mother was a rock and we’re going to miss her dearly.” He was steady, sincere, and had the trusted voice of someone narrating a documentary.

“Thank you.” was all Stephen could murmur.

The gentleman leaned in, “Son,” he continued, “she’s with the Lord now, some place she genuinely looked forward to being. But I want you to know we’re here for you.” Still gripping Stephen’s shoulder, he looked around at the crammed pews, many of the faces were staring back at them. “We’re all here for you.”

Stephen was uncomfortable having so many people looking at him but there was a reassurance delivered by their sympathetic and unassuming faces. “Thank you very much. I know she loved this church,” he replied, shaken to his core, but deeply touched by the care and concern which accompanied the man’s sympathetic words.

As Stephen helped Hailey out of her wheelchair and into the pew, he took note at how the entire chancel had been converted into a makeshift nursery. A splattering of color from flowers of all shapes and sizes combined in different arrangements. Each bore a personal card Stephen would eventually get around to asking Sarah to read. For now, he stared at the oversized picture of his mother in the center and he felt a swelling in his eyes. The portrait was beautiful and the smile on Rebecca’s face across the canvas illuminate the floral arrangement in the same manner her service had done for those who knew her.

Tom was already seated in the pew when Hailey shifted over and snuggled in next to him. Tom’s face remained emotionless and drifted ahead with the same blank stare Stephen had seen for years. He couldn’t tell what his father was thinking. There was no way of telling how Tom would respond to the loss of his bride of nearly fifty-five years. The man was clearly aware of Rebecca’s passing but how much he could understand was immeasurable. Questions filled Stephen’s mind about his father’s care.

What would the future look like for him? Would he be lonely? Did he know things would have to change?

Stephen had become concerned about how he would take care of his father. He certainly couldn’t continue to live in his house anymore, not by himself. What would happen to his father’s home? What could happen? There might be an opportunity to sell the house and use the money to pay for a caregiver to help Tom. But Stephen had grown up in that home. He had watched his father build, repair and improve the house of years of labor and skill. He knew how much his father loved the home and to give it up would be devastating to the already crushed man. Besides, being Stephen’s home it was a place where Tom crafted life’s memories in his more youthful days. A time when his body did what it was instructed and forged hammer and nail to build a porch, a deck, a sunroom. Stephen knew that Tom’s house was a part of him that the aging, withering man needed to hold on to. And now, it would be the keepsake for those memories of his wife. Selling the home while Tom was alive was not an option.

Stephen knew what needed to happen. His father would have to move in with them. He wondered how Tom would adjust. Could Tom accept living under his son’s roof and authority? What would change in their relationship? Would this ailing man, now only a shell of his once physical greatness, who was stubborn in his ways before the debilitating stroke, tolerate abiding by everyone else’s schedules?

Besides a helpmate, nurse and companion, Rebecca was Tom’s primary driver for not just appointments but leisure interests Tom was still prone to enjoying. Or rather, those Rebecca had said he enjoyed. Stephen wondered how much his father really enjoyed the museum or botanical gardens and how much his inability to contest made him the perfect companion for Rebecca on various outings. Whether he enjoyed the arts or hated them was simply irrelevant now. Stephen knew that a very real question was whether Tom could adjust to losing a large amount of his independence. Stephen worked from home but they still only had one car. He was already pressuring Sarah to be quick dropping Hailey off at school or to doctor appointments because he needed to be a presence at appraisal sites or client meetings. His mind immediately went to the prospect of Sarah using his parent’s car now that it was freed up. As an added benefit, if she used their car then there was less opportunity for his father, whose license had long since been revoked due to his medical condition, to take off and go joy riding as he was prone to do sometimes.

What a loving son. At my mother’s funeral and I’m already planning the takeover.

Regardless of the house or the car, one thing was for sure, that marathon race that Ray wanted him to run was off the table. There was too much to do, too many logistics, too many details and too little energy. There were bound to be other opportunities.

Sarah briefly gripped Stephen’s hand before letting go and quietly slid in next to Hailey. Sadness for his mother and fondness for his wife poured over Stephen. He resolved that Tom had to be aware of the circumstances. While the stroke had left him severely diminished, Stephen felt confident that Tom fully understood the gravity of the current situation. Looking at his father he could see that no thoughts were being given to the future though; no concern for upcoming changes. Stephen knew Tom’s distant stare was lost in the singular thought of just how much the man already missed his beloved wife.

Hailey leaned up and gave Tom a sweet kiss on his rugged cheek. Stephen watched as his father appeared unresponsive before he subtly reached over, grasped his granddaughter’s hand in the clench of his own and pulled her closer to his own body. Hailey responded by softly resting her head over his large forearm. She then reached over and pulled Tom’s disabled arm up, positioning it under her head and began caressing it. “It’s okay, Papi. It’s all going to be okay.” Stephen wasn’t sure if he was proud or saddened by the fact that his eleven year old had such an incredible amount of sympathy and compassion. Compassion, he knew, that had been reinforced by the servant heart of his mother, but which undoubtedly bore its roots from Hailey’s observation of the caring people who wore hospital scrubs to work each day.

Tom’s face remained fixated on the picture of Rebecca throughout the entire service as though he were a student focused on a lecture. Even as the officiating pastor briefly choked up while giving the family a case for continual encouragement and the hope of reunion in eternity. All the while, Tom’s gaze never drifted from studying the peaceful face of his beloved.

Mile 20

The year following his mother’s death was a challenging one. Coping with her loss taught Stephen just how much of a support Rebecca had been to his family. Rebecca had always been a significant support to his wife, but he was beginning to realize that he too had relied on his mom more than he had even been aware of. Beyond the assortment of minor household chores he hadn’t realized she had engaged in, there was a strength about Rebecca’s presence Stephen had unknowingly drawn encouragement from. He had always seen his mother as a happy person but her attractive personality had the ability to enhance the environment so that those around her were lifted up as well.

Stephen felt the awkward void. It wasn’t just her passing that left him wanting, he felt his own sturdiness seemed to be lacking. He was unsure of himself. There was something missing; an absence in the room which had left emptiness inside of him. For so long he had enjoyed having his mother in his life without taking the opportunity to appreciate time with her. He knew it was cliché to regret things left unsaid but his guilt, mixed with life’s frustrations, opened a spiraling emotional vortex which swirled whenever his mind was idle.

To their relief, Tom did not make a fuss about moving in. Stephen felt that perhaps Tom saw moving in as a way to support his son, even though Stephen would now take on the role of his caregiver. The relocation took several weeks but it was more about not wanting to rush Tom than it was about packing boxes. Though he never resisted, Stephen watched Tom during the moving season as he would walk into a room and just stand there for five or ten minutes; just standing and looking around. Stephen could tell the man’s memories were stored in the home so once a week, Stephen or Sarah would drive Tom back to the house just so he could be there and enjoy a bench in the backyard. Tom would rest while they cleaned up garden spaces or tended to trees planted long ago by a firmer, energetic and more able version of the man than the one who occupied the fading wooden bench.

Stephen knew his father loved being at the home. But it was never more apparent than the day Tom went missing. Panic quickly turned to aggravation once Sarah pointed out that Tom’s car was conspicuously absent as well. The assumption was spot on as they pulled into the driveway of Tom’s house, parking just behind the vehicle that Tom was legally prevented from driving.

It was evident the time had finally come for Stephen to explain the new rules, which included an absolute prohibition on his father driving. When words were finished being spoken, Tom simply nodded with the disdain of a teenager receiving a parental lecture. Tom then walked over to the keys, pointed at them and began adamantly pointing to his own chest.

Taking just a moment to understand, Stephen acknowledged the restructuring of the contract. “Yes, Dad. I understand. The car is still yours.” This seemed to satisfy the retired speed-demon and he acquiesced, taking the keys and placing them into Stephen’s palm.

The microeconomic challenges in a household are difficult enough without the world falling apart from macroeconomic events. For Stephen’s young company, the ongoing economic riles pulsating throughout the country could not have come at a worse time. His company was providing income but it was sporadic and eventually fell below the hurdle of rising expenses. Fears about the state of the commercial real estate market and the overall economy proved to be constant storm clouds hovering over his business. Every time there seemed to be a ray of good news breaking through, it was quickly followed by a thunderstorm of doomsday prognostications which sent potential real estate buyers scurrying to find cover by cancelling planned purchases. Without a buyer considering investment into new commercial buildings, there was no need to hire an appraiser and Stephen’s company suffered from the lack of consistency.

A couple of years into the success of moderate sustainability, business slowed to the point where he could no longer distribute work to other contractors. Instead he yielded to the family’s need for cash flow and focused on completing the jobs he already had. This would provide good income for the month but since he had been working instead of prospecting for new business, the next month would have far fewer opportunities and even less money flowing in. It was feast or famine; only the feast was more like trying to enjoy a community potluck with a devotee to the Atkins Diet.

Sarah picked up part-time gigs from time to time but the pay was low and her available hours never matched with an employer’s needs. Under a bruised and beaten economy, where it was difficult enough for a full-time worker to find employment, it was a near impossibility for a worker who had the constraints of being the primary caregiver to a disabled father-in-law and a daughter who needed regular precautionary attention; never knowing if a flu was just the flu or if it was a resurgence of the monster within.

The Lantz household found it near impossible to budget from such a haphazard lifestyle. The cost of living continued to increase as soaring gas and food prices placed added pressure on them. Health insurance premiums became so high they dropped coverage on Sarah in order to make payments for a harsh introduction into the world of self-employment taxes. The pie could only be cut so many ways and it wasn’t long before bills were being paid late, periodically, and eventually not at all.

The letter from the bank about their mortgage was one Stephen had been expecting for some time. No longer waiting until a crisis hit before mentioning it to his wife, he and Sarah had already discussed the impending financial tragedy. Stephen struggled to accept the reality but Sarah remained calm and encouraging throughout. They talked through options and after a few conversations which took them well into sunrise, they came to the agreement that if it ever came to losing the house, they were prepared with a plan. Sarah also mentioned that she would be praying for him and for their situation. He thought it a bit odd but praying was something she was into nowadays and if it could add an ounce of assistance, he wouldn’t make a big deal out of it.

Somebody saying they were praying for him was a phrase of encouragement he had heard often as a wounded warrior. It seemed to be a parting comment people made when they had nothing left to give. It was their way of departing with a sense of contribution as they left his world of torturous surgeries and grueling physical therapy, while they went back to their normal lives and struggles over which reality TV show they would zone into for the evening. While he appreciated the sentiment, Stephen had a feeling that such parting comments mainly served as a way for the visitors to have a way of avoiding feelings of guilt and helplessness. There was nothing they could do for him and providing a promise to pray proved to be a good way for someone to leave with their dignity intact. Stephen never begrudged those flippant words. Despite believing their prayerful intention never made it beyond the double doors of the hospital vestibule, he always gave the obligatory level of appreciation and gratitude. Now, his wife was talking about prayer all the time. She prayed over their finances. She prayed for their daughter, his father. She prayed for their company, and she told Stephen she would also pray for him.

Though he never said anything about it, her constant praying made Stephen incredibly uneasy. It wasn’t so much his wife’s new spiritual focus, which he assumed was a temporary response of Rebecca’s passing, but when Sarah said she would pray, Stephen felt absolutely certain she would. Each time her words left him feeling uncomfortable, as if he should be doing more to contribute as well. Stephen was struggling with a deep sense of guilt. Not just guilt born out of his failed responsibilities, this particular guilt came from a sense that his wife was doing something to help them on another level and he wasn’t even trying to be a part of it. All the while, Stephen was left frustrated and confused while his wife seemed confident and encouraged.

He had felt comfort in working out a plan to handle the house with Sarah. However, once the envelope arrived, the comfort left and his confidence crashed with him deep into the recliner. He held the sealed dry white envelope in his fingers. The recliner was uncomfortable. In the ten years they had owned the chair Stephen had never been quite as aware of the pressure points of the seat. The left side was firmer than the right. It caused an unnoticeable but absolutely distinct decline towards the right armrest. The more he thought about the decline the more it pushed back. The throw cushion in between Stephen and the armrest released a terrifying shrill as its seams were stretched from the pressure of the armrest and his unmovable body. Stephen dramatically ripped the cushion out from under his thigh and forcefully flung it across the room with the maturity of a baby’s tantrum. He sat there overturning the envelop several times before mustering the courage to tear open the seam and extract the legal-sized paper that would be his financial ruin. Not bothering to look at the paper, he glanced at his father who was fast asleep in the couch on the opposite side of the room.

Stephen knew what the letter would say. The problem began when they had refinanced their home several years before at the suggestion of the bank lender. When all the signatures were complete they had reduced their monthly mortgage payment by several hundred dollars and received a check that covered almost all of Hailey’s outstanding medical bills. At the time, it was the breathing room they had needed. In truth, it just helped them stay afloat longer while pushing the problem back a few years. Having no intentions of moving, Stephen had not been overly panicked as the value of their home declined with the bursting housing bubble being experienced by the entire nation. But the call he received from the bank nearly a year before had given him an outright shock. Apparently, when they refinanced the home someone had made an error in the tax calculation. As a result, the Lantz’s monthly payment was severely under funding their escrow account, the money which banks hold for the payment of taxes and insurance. In a nightmare version of Monopoly, the bank error did not absolve Stephen of their situation. Their monthly payment was required to be increased to meet the necessary gap in the escrow account. Stephen disputed and complained about the near doubling of their monthly payments but even the supportive pleas of the bank’s management couldn’t squeeze an ounce of sympathy from a financial institution that was vainly doing everything it could to keep from going out of business. The new bank that acquired their mortgage note from the failed lender was a faceless giant cranking out delinquent notices by bulk.

Stephen opened the envelope to read the bold letters at the top of the page, ‘Notice of Intention to Foreclose.’ He skipped past all the details of his obligations that he painfully knew by heart. He saw the lateral signature, seemingly scripted by the approving bank officer at the bottom of the page. It was tilted at an angle that wasn’t perpendicular with the piece of paper. Next he noticed the entire text of the page was tilted at the same angle. It was as if the signature was an electronic copy which had been printed along with the document but the paper hadn’t fed through the printer properly.

“Wow,” Stephen whispered aloud, “they’re cranking out so many of these they’re having the computers take your home away.” Depression set in as Stephen struggled to understand why he and Sarah never seemed to have a chance to catch their breath.

Forfeiting the battle with the recliner, Stephen rose to leave the room when he realized his father was awake and looking right at him. It was apparent that Tom knew exactly what the letter was for. Stephen walked to him with his head bent to the ground, ashamed to meet his father’s gaze. Stephen’s eyes could only reach Tom’s shoulders.

Dropping to his knees at the base of the recliner, he confessed, “I’m sorry, Dad. I wish I could make this work. I really don’t have any idea what else I’m supposed to do now.”

Stephen struggled to keep his emotions together and maintained a low, firm voice. “I’m sorry,” he said again realizing he knew no other words to release. He didn’t know how to encourage his father. The man had no choice but to rely on his only son. A son who was struggling with an obligation to explain that he had failed to take care of his family once again.

“Dad,” recognizing the pointlessness of excuses, Stephen’s voice cracked and he turned away from his father’s face, “I don’t think I’m strong enough for this.”

Tom stared at him and raised the one arm he could until it rested on his son’s shoulder. He tried to catch Stephen’s eyes but the broken man kneeling before him turned his head, refusing to look at Tom. Stephen rose to his feet and walked out of the room. Opening the front door, he stepped into afternoon sun, the stale air unmoved. Despising the beauty of the perfect spring day, Stephen stood on the front porch trying to think of a way to tell his wife that her prayers weren’t going to be enough this time.

Mile 21

The prospect of losing their home weighed heavy and made Stephen’s head feel flush. Sarah wouldn’t be home for a couple of hours and his thoughts scampered uncontrollably through his mind like cats locked in a room with a sprinkler. He was burning up, confirmed by a touch of the cheek. Temperatures must have been around the mid-eighties, nothing particularly stressful but the flushness of his skin swelled from an inner heat. He looked about at the empty neighborhood road. Not a car in sight. No children playing basketball in the street. Without encumbrance from the wind, the oversized oak tree in the front yard, overdue for a pruning, held its form as if ready to be framed. Tossed lazily at the bottom of the front porch were his running shoes. With no possibility of herding the thoughts in his mind, Stephen rushed down the porch stairs, took off his loafers and placed his running shoes over the worn cotton socks.

His mind skipped and without fully realizing it, he was beneath the noon sky quickening his pace over the slowly declining road. Leaving the neighborhood, Stephen turned onto one of the old farm to market roads he rarely ventured to. The road, commonly used by cyclists, went on for miles before hitting the next residential community, and signs of development were sparse. He expected the workout to help calm his mind but he felt very much the opposite. Anger and despondency over the foreclosure notice fueled his pace and each mile took a lifetime to reach. He eventually found himself pressing heavy feet into the curvature of a respectable hill, when the rear of a parked gray sedan came into view.

The car had been left along the shoulder but parked in such a way that it was obstructing a large section of the lane. It was an older model with the muffler hung too low and the back right brake light masked with red tape. Other than being extremely dirty and unkempt, the car didn’t have any visible reason for why it should have been abandoned. As he came closer, Stephen could see the orange sticker on the driver side window indicating that the vehicle had been marked for tow by the city within the next week. The rear window leaned at a strong angle and the sun reflected off the tinted glass, making it impossible to gain visibility of the interior, impossible to know what was inside, impossible to know if the car was a threat.

Stephen hadn’t remembered stopping or even slowing down. All he knew was that he stood firmly about twenty yards away from the vehicle, unable to move forward. He wasn’t sure how long he had been standing there, staring at this abandoned vehicle. His eyes felt dry, and he tasted the distinct salt of the desert’s sand in his mouth. As fear gripped him, his heart began pounding; far exceeding his running pulse.

Why is that car there? Who left it there? What are they planning?

Stephen looked around, scouring the horizon for reasons unknown to him. He crunched down on the feeling of sand gritting between his teeth. His head turned sharply to catch a glimpse of an unsuspecting onlooker; nowhere to be found. Forcing his body forward, he began moving again but it wasn’t to continue running. Confused but determined at the same time, purpose overwhelmed him and Stephen headed directly for the parked sedan.

Marching ahead he efficiently picked up a led pipe among the road’s debris which seemed to have been left there solely for his purpose. Poised next to the passenger side door, still sweating from the previous miles, his heart rate dropped and he stood in complete calmness. A deep breath, a look around. A gaze directly into the picturesque blue sky spreading across what was otherwise a serene afternoon. It was too familiar. He easily and all too clearly recalled a similar beautiful and horrible day on that Iraqi highway.

It was almost as if his arm was being controlled by someone else when it rose into the air. But there was no question who was in full control when the other arm came up to grip the pipe in a baseball-style swing. The resulting force exploded though the passenger side window with a pop that sent glass ricocheting throughout the car’s interior. That beautiful Iraqi day had brutally delivered more than just a bright sun and gentle breeze. It had kicked off a lifetime worth of pain. Stephen brought the pipe up again and delivered a crushing blow to the front windshield. The physical pain of the improvised explosive devise whose scars would never leave, the pain of cancer that rocked and nearly ruined their family, the loss of brothers in arms he would never see again, words to his mother he could never take back. Rage erupted from his core and flowed out of him in the form of a guttural scream. With all his strength, he brought the pipe down onto the car again and again and again, desperate to push out the pain of that beautiful day.

Stephen couldn’t remember how long he spent destroying the car. All he would later recall was that the car would be completely unrecognizable to the owner. Exhausted, he dropped his arms into his knees. A large slither of shattered safety glass from the windshield slipped off the dash and crunched onto the rough pavement. Despite being shattered, it kept its form and lay still; broken but held together in one piece. The pipe slipped from the grip of both hands and fell onto the floor with a loud rim shot which echoed in the silence.

Winded from his exertion, Stephen took in deep breaths of relief. He ignored the pipe and curiously stared at the fallen piece of windshield; broken but held together in one piece. “Damn, you’re one strong piece of glass.” He observed the unresponsive shards bound together in a mesmerizing spider web of damage. “Well, maybe you’re not so strong, but whatever that stuff is they put in there to keep you together… tough, really tough.”

He continued to huff with exhaustion when leaning over further caused his eye to meet the sun’s radiant reflection bouncing off the broken glass. Squinting with irritated blindness, he fussed at the glass, “How can something so broken still shine so bright?”

What was it his mother had told him? Something about how when the strength of the sun shines through us it opens our eyes and allows us to see the needs of others. It was something about reflections and life. He was pretty sure it was more of her Jesus-talk.

Well, the sun is doing nothing but blinding me right now, Mom.

Exasperated, Stephen thought again about the prospect of losing his house. Wasn’t it enough for him to lose his mother and have to deal with his daughter’s ongoing health issues? Hadn’t he done his part by going to war and nearly dying at the hands of unknown fanatics? What more was he supposed to go through? Why couldn’t he ever catch a breath long enough for them to get ahead in this world?

“When am I supposed to get a break?” He shouted uncontrollably at the broken glass. Relieving his back from the awkward and uncomfortable hunch, he stood, turned towards home, placed the pain and burdens of his mind squarely on his own shoulders and began walking.

He woke the next morning wrecked with guilt at the immense damage he had done. Stephen jumped out of bed early the following morning and drove to where the abandoned car had been. The sedan wasn’t there. The only reminders of his temporary dive into violent vandalism were the remnants of glass shards which blanketed the ground around the car’s absence.

Distress continued to hang over him as Stephen returned to his own driveway and began walking towards his front door. Guilt turned to embarrassment as he saw Tom standing, not standing, blocking the front door to the house.

“Good… morning, Dad?” Stephen announced hesitantly. He felt like the soon-to-be grounded teenager who had just been caught lying about his whereabouts. He stood expectantly as Tom limped his hindered body towards his son.

Tom, expressionless, raised the one arm which still obeyed him and opened his palm. A set of keys rested among the aged fingers.

Unsure about his father’s purpose and clarity, Stephen dismissed Tom’s action. “Dad, I don’t really want to go for a drive right now.”

Stephen could see twitches in the muscles of Tom’s face attempt to convey an expression. The man’s lips did not move but Stephen could see them turning pale, almost as if the blood were being pushed out of them. It was scowl. Stephen realized that his father was actually scowling at him.

“Dad, I’m sorry. We can drive around later but I really just want to go inside and have some breakfast.”

Tom rolled the keys around in his finger, held them by the key ring and pressed the set directly in front of Stephen’s face.

Taking a step back to get a better look, Stephen realized the keys did not belong to his father’s car.

“Dad? Are those your house keys?”

Tom gripped the keys and rolled them around in his clenched hand to jingle the keys.

“You want me to take you to your house?”

Tom’s back arched as if from irritation and he began adamantly shaking the keys level with Stephen’s face.

“I’m sorry, Dad. I don’t know what you are trying to tell me.” Stephen raised the palms of his hands up in a state of confusion but his voice revealed the irritation he felt towards his father’s exhausting disability.

Tom lifted the keys in his hand and slammed them into Stephen’s open palm. Then he clumsily turned to walk away.

Stephen watched his father slowly make it to the top of their steps when the awareness of his father’s actions hit him.

“Dad! Wait.”

Tom paused and with greater effort than it took to climb the stairs, he turned and faced Stephen.

“Dad, is this? Are you telling me?” He stumbled for words as if he was trying to find a playing card after having just dropped the entire deck. “Are you giving me the keys to your house?”

Stephen stared at his father with expectancy of some sort of verbal explanation or confirmation. The persistent blank look on Tom’s face showed no signs of an impending response.

“Are you giving me the keys to your house for us to move in to?” Stephen asked unconfidently?

Tom’s unmoving body told Stephen to continue.

“You’re giving me the keys to your house for us to sell it?

A raise of Tom’s head confirmed Stephen’s question.

“Dad,” his voice becoming overwhelmed with gratitude and sadness, “but your house? That’s your house. I don’t want to make you sell your house because of me.”

Tom descended the stairs and walked to face his son. Locking into Stephen’s eyes, Tom raised his one functional arm and used it to survey the expanse of Stephen’s yard and home.

Catching on, Stephen hesitantly assured his father, “This is your home now?”

Tom’s arm returned and gripped Stephen’s shoulder with a soft squeeze.

“You’re saving our house. You do know that, right? I can’t tell you how much this helps. How much it means…” Stephen paused to steady his voice.

In the moment’s pause, Tom raised his arm and waived his hand as if shaking off the gratitude. He returned to the stairs; negotiating them much more quickly than he had previously.

Stephen gripped the keys and watched his ailing father reenter his family’s home; all of his family’s home. His lungs released and a faint whisper emerged from his lips, “Thanks, Dad.”

The white sign on the floor ahead was barely noticeable but its presence caught Stephen’s eye. Sometime in the minute after he ran past the sign, his mind registered that he had read “Mile 21.”

Over five more miles to go still?

The singular thought of running nearly another hour was enough to make him collapse on the spot. His body was aching and tender touches were evolving into painful points. Stephen wasn’t doing well and he knew it. An imaginary vice wrapped around his back and continued to tighten. Rising stomach contractions were an overwhelming suggestion that drinking the entire bottle of that blue sports drink must have been another rookie mistake.

Stephen decided to do a “systems check” if for no other reason than to take his mind off the grueling pavement he labored along. Working his way up from the ground, he stole a glance at his shoes. Despite seeing they were stained, scuffed, and sweaty and would likely have to be burned to avoid a hazardous material team’s intervention, they seemed to be holding up well. He saw no real problems so far, other than the fact they didn’t have wheels on them. He would have to remember that one.

He considered the state of his feet: certainly not the best of conditions. He looked down at the road but to his surprise he was not actually running along a bed of nails. Nevertheless, every step painfully drove the hard cotton material of his shoe into a deep blister growing along the outer callus on the innermost toe of his left foot. He was pretty sure there was one on his right foot as well but that whole area had gone completely numb. He decided the right blister had already popped and was now exposing his toe to some infectious bacteria growing in a blood-soaked sock. Or perhaps he couldn’t feel it because the toe had simply fallen off. He reasoned that would probably be better than the bacteria. Regardless, the right side would be getting table scraps worth of attention in comparison to Mount St. Helen’s eruption on the left foot.

Knees? How you guys doing down there? Shot to hell; okay then.

Each leg threatened to buckle under the failing he felt in his knees. He felt pain with every step of his stride as it crashed into the unforgiving slab of titanium people had apparently mistaken for asphalt. Stephen thought about the width of Hailey’s old wheelchair and wondered if she’d mind sharing with her soon-to-be crippled father.

What the heck is going on with my hips? Why do they hurt so much?

Everything about Stephen’s hips just seemed to ache. He didn’t know if it was the lower back reverberations firing pulses through the bones, but his entire pelvis had nearly gone numb. He could barely feel his hip-flexor muscles. For that matter, he couldn’t even feel his shorts chaffing against his legs anymore. If there was a high note to the screams of his body it was the loss of that inner-thigh burn caused by his overly sweat-saturated running shorts. He dwelt on the feeling, or lack of feeling, of his running shorts. He questioned whether it was entirely possible to have lost the shorts somewhere in the last few miles; the thought gave him a humorous pause but it evolved into a concerned curiosity which no sensible man would bother entertaining. But Stephen was well past sensibility. He tried to resist the unreasonable thought that he might have actually lost his shorts, but it was futile. As ridiculous as it was, Stephen looked down just to make sure there was something still providing coverage to his waist.

“Alright,” he lectured to himself. “Keep going. No police escorts to the finish line today.”

With only a slight twinge of relief, he continued the inspection of his worn and wearing body. He had no idea why his shoulders were so exhausted. They were fatigued and he felt invisible sandbags resting upon each shoulder pressing him further down. The arms swung so low that his fingers were ready to overcome skeletal limitations and begin drooping into the rugged pavement. Stephen looked at the tense hands and released his tight grip on the air. It relieved some of the pressure on his shoulders and he wondered just how long he had been running with clenched fists. Regardless, the damage was done and the stiffness of his shoulders quickly returned.

“Come on, Mr. Stephen! You got this.”

The voice startled his drift from aimless thoughts. Incapable of responding to his mind’s curiosity, lethargic reflexes contributed barely enough muscular activity for him to lean his head backwards towards the voice’s source. Entering his eye’s corner with a steady plodding, Stephen saw the young lady from the starting line steadily approaching him.

Her pace dragged from an apparent, yet undecided conflict between determination and exhaustion. Previously brushed and attentively braided hair had become matted and it recoiled with every graceless step of her embattled stride.

With a high pitched, heavily labored voice she slowed her step alongside to match his pace, “We can do it Stephen. Just don’t stop. We can do this.”

The familiar voice in the midst of hostile territory gave an instant lift to his to demeanor and Stephen responded with a pained smile. “Hey Carrie. It’s good to see you again.”

He could see her cheeks were flush but, undeterred by the harsh journey, her smile remained ever-present.

“You’re doing great, Carrie. Keep it up.”

Carrie let out a pent-up burst of expression mixed with a healthy dose of sensationalized drama, “Oh my gosh, I am about to die! Seriously, Stephen- I’m pretty sure there’s not a crime I wouldn’t up and commit right now for just five minutes in a Krispy Kreme bakery.”

Stephen responded with a hearty and reassuring smile, “I don’t believe it. You’re doing awesome. Are you seeing yourself?”

“Oh, I can see myself alright.” Acting melodramatic, Carrie playfully filled her cheeks with air and made an exaggerated face at Stephen. “What do you think? Look just like a regular old Spartan, huh?”

Stephen released a spirited chuckle. “I really can’t see the difference.” He was immediately interrupted by a painful twitch in his lower back and let out a spontaneous, “Ouch!”

“You alright there? Wanna run together for a little while?”

“I’m okay, thanks. But you know, I think I’ve got something going on that I’ve gotta deal with. So you go on ahead.”

Carrie’s eyes moved beyond her entertaining self deprecation and looked at Stephen with empathy, “Leg cramps?”

“Could be. Could also be extraterrestrial abduction. Not sure yet.”

“Okay, you just hang in there. If the little green men don’t take you then I’m sure you’ll be passing me pretty soon.”

“Not likely, you’re doing great. Keep it up.”

“Alrighty, Mr. Stephen, you just take care of yourself and I’ll see you at the finish line.” Carrie quickened her stride and began exceeding Stephen’s dwindling pace.

As she pulled away, Stephen’s previous suspicions about Carrie’s sister were confirmed. For relief from the rising temperatures, Carrie had tied her lightweight pink pullover around her waist. It exposed her white t-shirt with an oversized picture of a beautiful twenty-something girl smiling for the camera while sitting atop a large stump in an open clearing. Words across the top of the shirt read “FOR AMY” and under the picture were two dates clearly representing the period of her lifespan.

“Go get ‘em, Carrie! You got this!” He yelled out with exhausted abandon.

A jubilant thumb launched into the air above her, and Carrie continued her steady pace into the fading horizon of Stephen’s view.

Mile 22

Stephen suspected at least another quarter mile had passed between his self-diagnostic and the chat with Carrie. It was a small win in a mind that was firing on very few cylinders. He attempted to straighten his back and provide relief to the tender area between his nagging shoulder blades. Instantly, Stephen felt a stabbing twinge above the base of his spine. The sharpness caught him off guard. His eyes darted open and he gasped for breath as if he had jumped into a swimming pool much colder than anticipated. Stephen shifted his weight with each step and attempted to stretch and work out the odd, borderline alarming feeling. Without warning, his legs launched into a revolution against their created purpose. He tried to mentally justify why they should continue their pace but it was a one-sided argument. The debate was rudely interrupted by a severe cramp in his left inner-arm just opposite the elbow. The strain grew and continued until it rose up his sleeve in a sluggish but steady progression.

Stephen was still squirming in pain when something in his back detonated, releasing a wave of nausea that nearly overwhelmed his dignity. He felt the Earth’s gravitational pull increase and his body began to slump over. Stephen responded to the siren song of the road and dropped his gaze into the unknown which rested a few thousand feet below the asphalt’s surface. As if taking the cue from the other body parts, Stephen’s knees came ablaze. Each of his increasingly minuscule steps punished him with an excruciating stripe that cut through the upper quads of both legs. Stephen felt a barrier in his lungs, and he found difficulty breathing. With no accord or deliberate intention, he felt his muscles completely run out of gas. The rotation of his legs slowed to a complete stop and left his obliterated body lingering awkwardly in the middle of the road.

His face went flush and a tingling sensation formed in the base of his jaw. Stephen could feel the rise of bile and felt as though he would hurl at any moment. He attempted to take a deep breath to relieve the sensation but his upper back responded to the initiative with a barrage of cramping sensations. A pounding began in his head that overwhelmed his sense of equilibrium. Nearly losing balance and trying to pucker cool air to his burning lungs, he leaned over in pain. His feet were firmly planted in the ground and he stood still, waiting; not in expectation but simply because he could physically do nothing else.

Hunched over in the locked position, Stephen placed his finger on the other wrist and checked his pulse. Despite having stopped for almost a minute his heart rate had skyrocketed and it didn’t appear to be slowing. He quickly became convinced he was experiencing a heart attack. He wanted to look around for the medic he had seen miles before but when he raised his head it seemed as though the planet dropped off its axis and was spinning uncontrollably. He leaned farther towards the ground and barely kept from collapsing by focused his throbbing eyes on a few small loose rocks of asphalt.

Stephen assessed his situation: he had become extremely weak and dizzy without warning, and the addition of a severe headache had made it all the worse. Panic set in as he realized it wasn’t a heart attack but instead, he was having a stroke. Having learned through his father’s experience, he determined that an emergency review of his physical capabilities was imperative. Still leaning over, he blinked his eyes and wiggled his fingers. They ached but he felt no paralysis settling in. With nothing less than a herculean effort, Stephen erected his back and raised both hands into the air at the same time to test mobility. Successfully performing a test of his physical limitations caused a gentle drop of comfort to come over him at the realization that he was not actually having a stroke. Teased with a small sprinkle of relief accompanying the minor victory, his arms collapsed back onto his knees.

It must be muscular. Touching each of his joints, Stephen tried to determine where the injury had to be located. He had lost all of his strength and it seemed as though every body part had completely shut down. His limbs each felt like jelly and the slightest movement instigated an immediate disorientation which had to be met with outstretched arms to keep from toppling over, but not without consequence. Stretching out his arms to keep from losing his balance only caused more pain and forced him to recoil. The sudden jerk of recoiling would then send a lightning bolt through each of the spinal nerves, in which case he would then have to reach out his arms to catch his balance. It was a horrible cycle of anguish and he was convinced it must have been quite a pathetic sight to any observer. He prayed the race photography union was on strike.

No heart attack, no stroke, no injury. It took a few moments but Stephen was able to reconcile the pain in his brain long enough to figure out he wasn’t about to die. In fact, he realized there wasn’t even going to be enough damage for a sympathy trip to the hospital. When his senses finally regained control over Stephen’s traumatized body he came to the conclusion that he had found himself face to face with what runners typically and quite unaffectionately refer to as “the wall.”

Immobile, confused and quite unsure of how to proceed, he peered at the road ahead, first with speculation and then pure disbelief at his location. With every muscle rebelling, he could only stand and wonder what the protocol was for laying down on the road in the middle of a citywide marathon. A more conscience man with any shred of decorum would have had the courtesy to move his degrading carcass to the side of the road and make way for other runners, walkers, pregnant women pushing strollers, and snails.

Stephen remained still, ignoring all who sped by him, accepting his new role as the stationary road block others would now have to make their way around. They would glare, curse and probably sneer at him. None of which mattered to Stephen because it was only a matter of time before the city’s work crew posted some bright orange cones around him.

His suffering led Stephen to believe the best reaction to this moment was to strike from his estate anyone and everyone who had ever encouraged him to run this stupid race. His mind barely lingered off the cliff long enough to prevent him from seeking a piece of chalk to draft a provisional will into the road to inscribe his imprecatory intent. Stephen lifted his head and took a deep breath.

“This sucks. This really… really… sucks,” he exhaled with the faint voice of pure exhaustion.

Stephen focused his mind on getting his ragged body moving in a forward motion again. His legs felt burdened by 30 pound sandbags added to every attempted step. Each time he tried to fight the stiffness, his entire body resisted and threw him into another fit of agony. The lower back felt like it had been dipped in concrete and was shifting lower to the ground. Every single joint in his body was in flames and waves of nausea continuously passed over him. The only thing masking the pounding of his chest was the constant and thunderous throbbing from within his head. Dried blood stained the bottom of the shirt where Stephen had earlier wiped his scratched hand after falling. His knees were also skinned and he was pretty sure the maroon discoloration on his left shoe suggested that his volcanic blister had erupted sometime during the misery of the past mile. For the next five minutes he practically crawled his way across another tenth of a mile. With another four or five miles ahead of him, there was no relief in sight.

Still fighting a full body breakdown and cognitive deterioration, Stephen wasn’t completely sure of himself when he looked ahead and saw the elderly man leaning against the opposite side of a street barricade. He squinted and shook the sweat from his eyes to get a better look. Leaning on a wooden, orange and white crowd control barrier alongside the road, carefully examining the sparse few passing marathoners with a determined stare stood Stephen’s father.

Mile 23

Tom stood by himself, his one capable hand locked for balance on the reflective barricade which kept pedestrians separated from the runners. Clearly looking for Stephen, Tom squinted his eyes to visually interview each distant runner as they came within his view. When Stephen emerged from the road close enough to be seen, Tom slowly raised his arm to ensure his son spotted him.

Balancing between physical agony and the cognitive disconnect of seeing his father, Stephen was disoriented by his own confusion. It was a welcome confusion as the sight of his father gave a brief moment of distracted relief from the pain, but it was very brief. Looking at his father in such an out-of-sort context left Stephen bewildered and he half expected to see his mother. Aware that he wasn’t hallucinating, the pain returned to his lower back and each step emphasized the miserable condition of his broken and deteriorating body. He looked around to search for the person who would have driven his father to this isolated location along the race path. Drifting the unseaworthy craft of his body closer to the curbside, Stephen wondered how his father could be there completely alone. He did his best to fight off the pain coursing through his body and hobbled towards Tom’s location.

“Dad!” Stephen called out as he continued to fight the constant rebuttal of every joint and muscle he had. “Dad; what are you doing here?” Tom looked back with the same blank stare he had held for the past dozen years. “Did Sarah drop you off?” He pleaded for an answer, for some response from his father’s stroke impaired body. Looking past Tom’s oversized frame and broad shoulders was challenging enough, but it didn’t help that Stephen was hunching over. He peered past Tom’s torso to try and get a look for Sarah or a helpful neighbor who may have driven his father. Seeing no one else but Tom in sight, Stephen looked toward the pocket of his father’s khaki pants and saw the unmistakable outline of car keys.

“You drove?” he chided. Relief was disruptively replaced with a hot frustration and an awareness of just how unworkable the situation was. He immediately knew his father’s insistence on driving would once again require his intervention. Working from a fuse which was already less than a quarter of its normal quick length, Stephen had no patience left for the man who repeatedly and willingly endangered and inconvenienced others.

Stephen popped off, “Dad! Do you still not realize how dangerous it is for you to drive? What were you thinking?”

Stephen’s rising inflection was filled with an unnatural condemnation and heavy with the condescending emphasis one typically reserved for a misbehaving child. After years of accommodating and nurturing his father, it was apparent the inevitable completion of role reversals had finally arrived. Stephen knew his loose encouraging of his father needed to be replaced with an instructive and firm parental authority. In a series of consequential thoughts that did not pause for serious consideration, Stephen irrationally decided that if Tom could no longer respect the rules, living at home would cease to be an option. Tom would spend his remaining days in a nursing home.

“That’s it, Dad! That’s the last time! You know you can’t drive and the fact that you would just ignore that is completely irresponsible. You can’t do the things you used to do and at some point you’re going to have to come to grips with that!” His emotions were entirely unchecked as he grit his jaw and raised a finger to the withered but steadfast oak who had taught him what it meant to be a man.

“I’m selling the car!” Stephen had no idea where that one came from. Self-actualization began to peer through the fog of his mind and he slowly became conscience of his surroundings.

“Maybe.”

Stephen let out a deep breath while Tom remained stoic and expressionless. A trickle of steadily paced runners passed through Stephen’s peripheral. The chastisement of his father had been exhausting. With muscles aching and twitching uncontrollably throughout his body, Stephen returned to the former empty shell of himself. With a broken body and a spent mind, Stephen mentally prepared to gather the keys from his father and drive Tom home.

He would figure the rest out later but today’s run was finished. This race was over for him. He knew it. Stephen had known it from the very beginning. He hadn’t trained enough. He hadn’t slept enough. He hadn’t planned enough. When excuses and justifications could no longer walk alongside him, Stephen had to admit to himself that he simply hadn’t been good enough to take on this challenge. And now, it was over.

Stephen’s head dipped towards the ground, his eyes catching a glance at his stained and saturated shoes. He rested an aching palm against the road barrier inches away from his father’s hand. Head hanging low, he winced not from the pain of exhaustion, but from the familiar chest tightening of disappointment and guilt as the twin oppressors reminded him that he was, after all that had happened, once again standing before his father, another failure in hand.

Tom released the barrier and gently clenched his son’s forearm. The old man leaned his head down to look into his son’s disheartened gaze.

Without meeting his father’s eyes Stephen mustered, “Dad, I’ve got to take you home.”

Stephen knew taking his father home had less to do with Tom’s safety. It was his escape. His shoulders slouched and the air trickled from his lungs. The hot air flowing across his lips left Stephen nauseous. He couldn’t think entirely straight but he felt certain everything in his body caused him pain. But he knew it wasn’t just his body which was afflicted. The dam of his willingness had finally given way and he knew he had been beaten. Any shred of motivation capable of keeping him in the fight had abandoned his body and his mind. The miles of this road had been more than he could bear. Beyond the wear of the race, Stephen felt the burden of the miles he had yet to leave behind. The miles of a desert war he didn’t know how to leave. The miles of a long road back to a home he hadn’t known how to return to. The miles of hurt and helplessness as he had watched his daughter suffer beneath an enemy he had no ability to confront. The miles of grief from the devastating abruptness of his mother’s death. The miles of struggling to work so hard to provide for his family. Even the miles of finding his way back to a marriage he was now willing to fight for and honor. There were simply too many miles and they had taken too much of a toll. Stephen had gone as far as he could and now there was nothing left for the remaining miles ahead. Whatever he had to give lay exhausted on the road behind him buried under his burdens. With every sense of who he was, he realized the distance of his race had been too long.

Tom’s forehead shifted while his expressionless gaze remained unchanged. Stephen reached down to pull back the barrier to begin the long path of failure. Tom, moving faster than Stephen had seen in years, reached down with his capable arm and firmly grabbed the wooden barrier, keeping a strong grip on it.

“It’s alright, Dad.” Stephen reassured his father in a calm and resolved voice. There was a wave of comfort beginning to settle into Stephen’s mind. He knew he was done and while his mind hated him for it, his body could not have been more agreeable.

“I’m done here. My body’s a wreck and I can’t go any further. I have to stop.” Riddled with guilt and beginning to feel the cool tingles of numbness leaving his body, Stephen lifted the railing off the ground and began sliding it back so he could push past.

The railing slid up and back about six inches when Tom’s teeth clenched. Instead of letting go, Tom leaned forward and shifted strength into his arm with a forceful downward thrust. The barricade was ripped out of Stephen’s hands and crashed into the asphalt with all the force and emotional rejection of someone slamming a solid wooden door shut on an intruder.

“Dad? What are you doing? I told you I’m done here. I need to get you home.” His body sent a brief shiver over his skin as if to warn him that he didn’t have the energy to argue with his father at that moment. Stephen again attempted to lift the barrier but Tom’s one-handed grip on the railing was immovable, its strength revitalized by the pure willpower of a frail but unbroken man. His eyes locked onto Stephen’s with a stern and commanding parental glare. Stephen, justified in his decision to stop, avoided eye contact and gently placed his hand back on the railing.

“It’s okay. This was a bad idea. It was always a bad idea.” Deciding against the confrontation, Stephen instead moved to the right of the barrier and began pushing the adjoining guardrail aside to create a new exit from the course. “I can’t do this,” he said with a depressed confidence. “I’m busted up pretty bad. I think I probably injured something and I’m going to stop. It’s just a race and it’s time to go, Dad. We need to get you home.”

Tom peered into the brokenness of Stephen’s eyes and released his grasp on the guardrail. In a combined movement of frailty and power, Tom raised his arm up, firmly clenched his hand and slammed his fist into Stephen’s chest. The impact of the aged and disabled man’s punch was surprising to Stephen’s body but his mind went blank with shock. Unable to verbalize his befuddlement over the fact that his father had just struck him, Stephen stood in stunned silence, fixated on the feeble man’s eyes.

The punch woke his body and Stephen began to have feelings return. His stiff back began to groan. His inner thighs blazed from the miles he had spent unconscious of the persistent chaffing. The heavy beating of his heart echoed and gave his head the feeling of being compressed. Reverberations from his core pulsated and forcefully pumped blood vessels, awakening strained tendons and overworked muscles throughout each fiber of his body. The heightened sense caused each nerve to heat up as if they were the unified voice of a thousand infernos erupting from within. Tom’s punch had knocked Stephen back into the harsh reality of his moment, a cataclysmic shattering of the escape which had quickly becoming Stephen’s false salvation.

Tom’s hand was still raised before Stephen. As the fist began to move again, Stephen braced for another punch. Instead, Tom’s jaw tightened and his mouth slowly opened as he pulled in a deep breath. A finger extended from Tom’s hand and slowly drifted into Stephen’s chest.

Exhausted and despondent, Stephen stared at his father’s extended finger lingering at him. The palm of his father’s hand opened and moved to rest onto his chest. Tom leaned his head forward and forced his jaw into his own chest before raising it and revealing an overly exaggerated open mouth. Not since a previous lifetime had Stephen heard his father make a sound beyond grunts of discomfort but in that moment of Tom’s grip, a purposeful noise began to erupt, “Ah-nnn…g!”

His mouth opened and closed several times as Tom fought to coordinate the sounds. He turned his head from side to side as if to gain momentum and topple the words from his lips, all the while he kept his palm on Stephen’s chest.

“Dad, what is it? Are you okay?” Stephen rested his hand on Tom’s shoulder and felt his own body shiver with concern. Closely watching Tom’s movements, Stephen knew he would be in a challenging position to assist his father if another stroke was upon him.

“Shhhh… aaahhh!” Tom’s voice became forceful and louder.

Tilting his head as if to hear his father better, Stephen observed his father with a hopeful disbelief as Tom repeated, “Shhhh… oooo… gggg!”

Tom was clearly trying to say something. Stephen’s observation shifted from concern to curiosity in a realization that his father was not just communicating, but instructing.

“Sssshhh… oooo… nnnggg!” his voice raised as Tom’s finger extended again into Stephen’s chest and steadily began to jab. Tom paused and surveyed his son.

Stephen found himself unable to speak as he maintained his bearing into the deep richness of his father’s eyes. To Stephen, the debilitating stroke had taken away the greatest man he had ever known. Tom had been athletic and his physical prowess could be counted on, but he was also a steadfast guide who could be trusted to stand behind his family, his friends and that which he believed. Tom had always been compassionate to others and remained a tenacious debater who had walked with the non-arrogant confidence of a man secure in knowing who he was and what he stood for. Even as Stephen became a man, Tom seemed to stand so tall to him. But in a losing battle with his body, Stephen had watched Tom whither into a clumsy shell while a brilliant mind drifted into a distant shadow of the man he once was. As hard as it was for Tom to deal with the debilitating results of his stroke, the loss of his father’s capabilities had been a crushing and confusing blow for Stephen. Tom’s new state represented the loss of Stephen’s closest friend, confidant and greatest role model. The loss was something Stephen had failed to realize and as a result, he failed to mourn or overcome. As Tom eventually resolved himself to the new windows he would be forced to view the world through, Stephen had dealt with his own pain and fear by resenting his father’s disability and letting frustration brew to his new burden.

Now Stephen looked back at Tom and drifted deeper into his father’s purposeful stare. As he did, Stephen became aware that every ounce of the man his father used to be, continued to live on from behind Tom’s glazed pupils. He was surprised to see that the confidence, the wisdom, the tenacity, the determination, the compassion; it was all there staring back at Stephen. And it was determined to tell him something.

Without warning, Tom firmed his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and reeled his neck back to pull in another deep breath. He fired his finger hard against Stephen’s chest and leaned into his son’s face with a loud release, “STRONGGGGG!”

Stephen was taken off guard by the clarity in Tom’s voice and had to fall back a step to keep from being toppled. The pain in Stephen’s body cowered beneath the exuberant command of Tom’s articulate and intimidating word. He took another step back but Tom’s finger remained motionless in the air, trained on his son. Stephen hesitated and was too stunned to respond at the excitement of hearing his father’s true voice once again. But he saw steadfast fire in the man’s eyes and replied with astonishment, “Dad?”

“STRONGGGG!” Tom repeatedly jabbed at his son and Stephen heard the uninhibited instruction.

Suddenly the words of Command Sergeant Majors Waters returned, “There’s a strength working inside you.”

His mother had told him about a strength carrying her when she could no longer bear a burden. That strength had given her a peace which allowed her to sacrificially care for others in a way he couldn’t understand. He had called it her crutch. But if Stephen had ever needed a crutch; mentally, physically or spiritually, he knew it was now.

He had dealt with too many disappointments, too many failures, too much pain, too much hurt, too many times he had let others down. The burden of each remained rested upon his shoulders but as he stood there in labored breath, the bitterness brought about by their compounding presence began to crumble from within him. He felt the burden lifting and from within he could sense the growing warmth of an ember that had been sparked with life.

“STRONGGGG!” Tom repeated with intensity and determination.

“Okay, Dad.” Stephen slowly nodded his head and gripped his bottom lip between his teeth. “Okay.” His eyes shifted from Tom’s to the road ahead as he turned around and took a single painful step back onto the race course.

“STRONGGGG!” Tom continued shouting at Stephen.

The pain in his back muscles fiercely announced its return as Stephen leaned his body unnaturally towards the ground and willed his legs to scoot forward and catch him. The pads of his tender feet felt engulfed in a pool of fire upon each contact with the asphalt. He embraced the pain and let it wash over him, unconcerned with the consequences.

“STRONGGG!” Stephen could hear Tom repeatedly calling out from behind him as he picked up the pace and launched into a full stride.

His shoulders began to loosen with each steady, deep draw of breath he took. His scoot gave way to a shuffle and then with a full step, his lower back hesitantly released its vise grip and Stephen felt the flush of blood warming through his legs once again.

“STRONGGGG!” Distance grew between the men as Tom’s shouts began to fade. But his father’s voice echoed within Stephen.

“STRONGGGG…”

Mile 24

Sarah sat in pressed deep into the corner of their beige acrylic couch. She let the fibers of the couch embrace her as if they could offer a hint of protection against the crushing silence of the room.

Fearful that an emotional response would dominate and let loose the hurt she felt, Sarah measured her words, “So they gave you the opportunity to stay home?”

Stephen struggled to find the balance between information and confession. “Basically, yes.” Stephen responded with shame, “I mean maybe not home like after the first deployment, but yeah, it would have been a desk job within the area.”

“But they gave you the choice of not going to war.” Her face maintained its initial disbelief.

“Yes.” Stephen swallowed his own words.

“They gave you the choice,” Wounded to her core, Sarah responded as though she were losing her grip on life with the release of each syllable, “they gave you the choice of not leaving your family?”

“While the rest of my unit headed into combat.” Stephen reasoned.

“Is that why you chose to go? For your men?”

“No. I can’t honestly say it was for them.” His voice dropped with the admission.

“Go ahead, Stephen. Tell me it was for the men.” Sarah grasped for any reason to think that her husband wouldn’t willfully leave them. “If it was for the men, I could take that.”

“Once we were in the desert, leading the men kept me wanting to be there. But they weren’t the reason I volunteered for that second deployment.”

“Because if it wasn’t the men, then that sounds a lot like you left to get away from something. Really it sounds as if you were trying to get away from us. Like you were rejecting us.” Sarah’s voice rose with consequence.

“No, Sarah, no. That’s not it at all.” Stephen refuted.

“You’re right. I know it wasn’t a rejection of us. You’d never turn away from Hailey.” Sarah acknowledged while holding back waves of emotion this confession had begun to expose, “But I do think it was a rejection of me.”

The truth in her words hit him hard. He paused a moment and collected his thoughts, “The truth is… the truth is that I was afraid.”

“So you went to war instead?” Sarah protested.

His words refused to flow but Stephen pressed through the sadness brought on by his confession. “I was afraid of what we were turning into. Deployment gave me a chance to escape and not have to deal with our issues at the time.”

Stephen could feel his difficult admission give ease to the tension in the room. “And yeah, at the time I was thinking of active duty and maybe even Officer Candidate School down the road. Another deployment would have helped with selection.”

“We would have done all of that with you.” Sarah responded tearfully.

“Yes, now. But what about back then, Sarah? Would you have?”

“I don’t know. I guess I can’t say for certain. We never talked about it.” Sarah wiped a slowly forming tear from her eye. “But you didn’t need to, remember. You were already thinking of going active duty back then, weren’t you?”

Stephen gave pause to the memory of how he used to antagonize his wife into an argument. He hated the way he would drive over her feelings. He had no intension of going back to that guy. He held his tongue in silence as his wife spoke painful truths back to him.

“I think,” She hesitated to express what her mind had already constructed, “I think, active duty was part of your backup plan. In case you returned home and decided you wanted to be a single man again. I get it. Our marriage was on the rocks and that second deployment was your exit strategy.”

“Sarah, it was years ago and we were in a tough place back then.”

“A lot’s happened in those years. We’re doing so much better now, aren’t we?” Sarah’s tears began to flow more freely.

Stephen moved onto the couch and pulled her into his arms. “We’re past all of that.”

“I’m not the same person I was during that season.” Sarah replied.

“No, but it doesn’t matter. This wasn’t your fault. I’m the one who was almost ready to give up. I was the one making the mistake when I should’ve trusted you back then.”

Sarah pulled back and looked into his eyes, “You trust me now?” she asked.

“Without a second’s hesitation.” Stephen responded confidently, his fingers gently strolling through her hair.

“To the point where you can tell me all this?”

Stephen’s head dropped into his chin, “I’m so sorry I’ve held this for so long. I wanted to tell you the moment I got back.”

Sarah gently placed a finger on his chin and lifted his eyes to meet hers, “I’m sorry for you. You’ve had so much you already dealt with and I can tell this has been eating at you for a long time.”

“I’ve wanted to tell you a hundred times but I couldn’t get thoughts to make sense when I tried to put them into words.”

“We’ve both changed. It’s a process and not an overnight one. It’s a good thing though.” Sarah said encouragingly.

Stephen’s own tears swelled the brim of his eyelids, “I’m so sorry I didn’t stay with you and Hailey.”

“But you made it back to us. Even if it was in a few pieces.” Sarah’s joke broke the last icy layer of tension and a smile spread across both their faces.

Laughing, Stephen replied, “Yeah, I’m sorry about that too. Not too many near-death experiences at a desk job. I guess I brought that on myself.”

“No, you didn’t bring that on yourself. But that experience brought you back to me. And it doesn’t matter how hard or long the road was. It’s been used for good because we’re here now, together.”

Stephen smiled with relief, “I’m just thankful for every day I get to wake up next to you. Every day that I get to watch Hailey grow stronger and see her living a full life.

Sarah’s attention became distracted, “Speaking of, we have a fourteenth birthday party to start planning for.”

“Isn’t she turning three next month?” Stephen said.

Pointing towards the second floor, Sarah responded, “You go tell that to that girl upstairs who’s teaching me how to highlight my own hair.”

“Your hair looks great, by the way.” Stephen quickly complimented.

“Thanks. But we’re doing it tomorrow.”

“Oh.” His face turned sheepish.

“It’s okay. The idea is for you not to notice when I hide my gray hairs.”

“I really don’t know where to go from here.” Stephen sat up straight as if he were the misbehaving schoolboy putting on his good boy face.

“Fourteenth birthday party ideas.” Sarah reminded.

His body slouched back into the cushions, “Ahh, can I get past this weekend first?”

“Oh, you mean that little thing you’re doing Sunday?” Sarah prodded.

Stephen’s head rested on the couch and his eyes glazed across the ceiling. “Yeah, that little 26.2 mile thing.”

“Hey, you haven’t been running much lately. Are you going to be okay?” Sarah asked.

“It’s tapering, Sarah. You’re supposed to reduce your miles as you get closer to race day.”

Smirking at her husband’s confidence, Sarah answered, “You haven’t gone for a run in three weeks.”

“Okay, maybe I’m testing a new extreme tapering strategy.”

“You’re stressed. But I get the feeling this isn’t about the marathon, is it?”

Stephen sat up and let out an exhausted breath. “It’s the Rockwell account. I can’t get my mind off it.”

“Tomorrow’s the meeting, right?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow we find out whether or not we stay in business.” Stephen’s tone grew concerned.

“It doesn’t matter how long or how hard this road is. We’re here and we’re together.” Sarah reassured him with a two arm grasp around his shoulders.

“Thanks hon. If I can get through this meeting with Rockwell tomorrow, that marathon is going to be a breeze.”

Having fallen asleep with his wife in his arms and nothing between them but a peace that only the truth could bring, Stephen woke to a restfulness he had not known in years.

Frustrated, irritated and paranoid about the sweat beginning to form on his forehead panic began to settle in as Stephen unfolded the knot and dramatically yanked at the shell of the tie; ripping it off his neck.. Looking down at the material in his hands he noticed the hidden slip stitch had busted and now the interlining of the tie was becoming exposed from the backside. He took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling as if there were some magical tie fairy who could drop down and solve the crisis of the moment. He resolved that wishing was about the best he could hope for. It wasn’t as if Sarah would suddenly burst into this building’s men’s room and fix it for him. Especially not after he had rejected her assistance back at the house when her subtle offer unconsciously called his manhood into question. With his man-card held in the balance, Stephen looked into the mirror, steadied his hand and pulled the tail of the tie and adjusted the center to form a perfect divot. He sighed with one part relief and one part embarrassment at the extent of drama he had just put himself through.

A bell chimed signaling the arrival of the elevator. The bronzed brushed doors slowly moved aside and he faced the empty chamber. Stepping inside, he took a moment to inspect the alignment of his hair in the mirror covered walls.

Speaking to an infinity of reflections he begrudgingly expressed, “You should’ve gotten a haircut.” His fingers made their way onto the rows of buttons and he pressed the button for the twenty third floor.

Rockwell Development Company took up the entire twenty third floor as well as the subsequent two above it. Rockwell was the third largest real estate developer in the entire region. More importantly, they were Stephen’s single largest customer and accounted for nearly half of his business.

McDowell had been right about the real estate industry and the economy as a whole. It did take a major downturn and the results were brutal. The Financial Crisis of 2007 and 2008 was more devastating than anyone alive had experienced in business. The residential real estate market was brought to a screeching halt and everyone held their breath waiting for the other shoe to drop on the commercial real estate business. In hindsight, Stephen realized that McDowell should have sold his company long before their conversation. Any sort of buyout would have been preferable to the downward spiral he rode until bigger competitors came in and bought assets and talent on the cheap.

Instead, even his most experienced and loyal staff was laid off. The timing of which landed them in a market where people became more and more desperate just to have a job and hiring firms were able to force workers to accept lower paying salaries just to maintain a livelihood. Those who couldn’t were pushed out of the business altogether and found themselves in the larger pool of the recession’s turmoil competing in unfamiliar industries against much more seasoned job seekers from that field. A few desperate and obviously chemically imbalanced radicals did something crazy like start their own firm, as Stephen had.

For a season, the entrepreneurial life seemed to fit Stephen. He enjoyed the work and clearly had a skill for the appraisal business. As real estate investment buckled under the massive housing crash of 2008, development firms had little choice but to respond to the ongoing economic downturn with a series of cost-cutting measures; some of which included opting away from long-term relationships with established companies and instead turning towards short-term contract labor for their appraisal needs. This opened a door of opportunity for Stephen’s fledging start up. The rates he was able to charge were not as high for a small business but Stephen was able to expand his business with additional volume. He had duplicated his efforts by bringing in other industry job seekers he could train and contract out to the larger real estate companies, many of which were established enough to transition and expand their resources into building renovations to supplement their dwindling development businesses.

S&S Appraisals, Stephen and Sarah’s fledgling appraisal business never really exploded but there was income and some notable periods of solid growth. The growth hadn’t come in time to prevent the bank from threatening to push them out of their home. Thankfully, the sale of Tom’s house had provided enough capital to avoid a fire sell to preying investors offering below-market prices to families under the threat of foreclosure.

The business brought in enough to pay the household bills and cover the necessary upkeep on a used vehicle with over eighty five thousand miles on it. The income also covered deductibles for Hailey’s treatments. What continually stretched the household budget was paying for all the supplemental care deemed to be “non-critical” under their ever changing medical plan. Stephen and Sarah, despite losing the argument with the benefits administrators, hadn’t considered it extravagance to provide their daughter with access to “additional” oncology specialists or “luxuries” like medicines to deter week-long nausea. While it meant a few more highly processed but less expensive meals, they made it work.

They made it work because they worked at making it work. Stephen and Sarah’s marriage became more of a partnership than it had ever been. Sarah’s consistent gentleness had reduced Stephen’s anger and opened a path for them to make progress through their conflicts. On more than one occasion her patience gave Stephen a moment to pause and consider before reacting. Instead of battling over one another, they talked and worked through disagreements. It wasn’t perfect and there were more than a few personality potholes to make the journey back, but their relationship made a smooth landing and that gave them both enough hope to keep working at it.

Nevertheless, the economic slowdown during the next few years was unlike anything seen in generations. While they were getting along great as a couple, neither could do much to generate new business. Eventually, real estate development turned into a dry creek bed and the renovation business slowed down to a trickle. Several of the conglomerate companies took major hits from their multiple lines of business and conducted massive layoffs with several completely going out of business. The decline in work hit Stephen’s appraisal business hard and it wasn’t long before he ran out of work to pass along to his contract workers. For the minimal work he was getting, he had to do it himself in order to bring in enough money to meet their household needs. Even though they were not full-time employees of his, it pained him to turn away the people who trusted him to drive in new business. With an understanding of the world’s chaos around them, they were much more gracious and forgiving of Stephen than he was of himself.

The heart had skipped a few beats when he got the call from James Rockwell, “Please come in so we can talk about the work you do for us.” It was rare form for Mr. Rockwell himself to call. And if picking up the phone to talk with a contractor like Stephen was rare as a Sumatran rhino, asking him to come in and meet in person was the speckled unicorn.

Stephen stood alone in the confined lift watching the ascending numbers illuminate in sequence, 8… 9… 10… 11… The thoughtless elevator showed no compassion for the man whose anxious heart sunk further with the passing of each floor.

The refreshingly cold water bottle offered to him did little to ease the tension Stephen was feeling. A twinge of embarrassment hit as the bottle crackled under his unconsciously tight grip. Nevertheless, the pleasantness of the modest administrative assistant escorting Stephen through the hallway obligated him to generate a smile.

Only once before had he been to a conference room on Mr. Rockwell’s floor. It had been about a year and a half prior when he met with one of the company’s executives to discuss the potential of Stephen’s company assisting with some of the firm’s land acquisitions. The office was not overdone but it was professional. Artwork lining the perimeter walls provided a colorful diversity but just enough consistency to avoid being eclectic. The apparent quality in the frames let on that the pieces were not picked up at a local retailer but instead had the touch of a professional buyer.

The office showed class but it didn’t brag. There was no glass-enclosed trophy shrine of public recognition like he had seen in so many other developer offices. Despite his massive success, James Rockwell did not have a reputation as a flashy man. It was well known that he believed ego and opulence at best added distraction and at worst served as a thin veil for undeserved confidence. Resumes braggers had a short shelf life at Rockwell Development as their chief executive wanted his people to be so good at the work they were doing, they didn’t feel obligated or tempted to boast on prior accomplishments. The determination worked and his reputation for being a tough but fair businessman who could deliver solid and consistent performance was a siren call to customers and job seekers alike. Rockwell, ever the contrarian, had already built an incredibly high performing team but it was supplemented through aggressive hiring practices that went into effect whenever any of his competitors were known to be struggling. The recession kept his hiring team on their toes as they tenaciously pursued top talent that had no interest in being the last off a sinking ship.

It was Don Rockwell, James Rockwell’s father, who started Rockwell Development Company and passed it down to his son. Though the manner of transition was very different than the typical legacy continuation strategy often sought by wealthy families. Don Rockwell was a man of extraordinary vision, superhuman people skills, and a moral compass that could have been used as a timepiece. A workaholic by inheritance, Don was himself, an absentee father who spent more days on the road building business than he ever did at home building a family. Unfortunately, while he labored hard, Don’s dial for play was always set at a hundred percent. He had a well-earned reputation for being able to turn a three-day business trip into a weeklong gambling, drug-infused womanizing extravaganza. Known for his passionate love of fast cars and even faster women, it wasn’t a surprise to anyone when the very public divorce from his third wife, who also happened to be his former secretary, caused Don to finally lose his controlling interest in the Rockwell Corporation. The ensuing financial fallout and questions about Don’s character soiled longstanding relationships and thrust the company to the brink of bankruptcy. What Don took for a casual setback, the Rockwell board of directors identified as an irreconcilable liability. However, it wasn’t until Don was engulfed in a pressure cooker of attorneys, board directors and investors that his nightmare truly began.

The eldest son from Don’s first marriage, having shown early flashes of brilliance in the real estate business, took it upon himself to redeem the family name. Despite learning more about his father through the papers than in person, he was astute enough to leverage the family reputation to form a star-studded investor group that strategically closed in on Rockwell’s largest customers and capital partners. Compounded by their President’s personal problems, it was only a matter of time before Rockwell’s board had the choice between an amicable buyout or face a hostile takeover by the rising powerhouse which had already pillaged customers, investors and employees. No one on the board had an appetite for a public takeover campaign that would undoubtedly reveal Don’s misogynist antics and further damage the company’s already depressed value.

Early eyes of skepticism were quickly replaced with sighs of relief when it was revealed that James, Don’s first-born son, would emerge as the driving force and the final signatory required to execute the buyout documents. Despite what would have otherwise been difficult circumstances, negotiations cruised with relative smoothness thanks to an extremely agreeable Rockwell board of directors. The biggest point of contention came at the final execution meeting when James refused to let the deal close unless Rockwell’s board allowed the company name to be released from usage restrictions and transferred in the sale. Distressed and already enraged by his board’s betrayal, Don finally cracked and put his foot down. He unloaded for a solid twenty minutes while James stood on the opposing side of the conference room’s fifteen foot solid mahogany table in silent defiance. James had nothing to say to the stranger who knew so little about him. The only response James wanted to give his father was typed in black ink upon the deal documents he now stood poised over. His firm stance and the placement of the pen directly parallel to the stack of papers made it abundantly clear that James had no intention of applying his final signature until Don relented. There were those in the room who considered it bad taste to launch such a personal eleventh-hour request. But they quickly recognized that the aging Rockwell was a train wreck of his former self while the younger model was as reserved and responsible as he was shrewd and brilliant. He was the antithesis of his father in every way except for his knowledge and understanding of the business.

Don’s anger eventually gave way to exhaustion and he relented the floor to helplessly watch the turnover of his company. Immediately upon the execution of the sale, a hand-picked and newly installed board of directors of the combined company unanimously made James the chief executive officer of the new Rockwell Development Company. James’ first act as CEO was to offer Don an executive role under the acknowledgement that the company culture would be changing dramatically and as such, Don would be barred from any customer or vendor contact. Don’s black and blue ego was in no condition to have sand kicked in his face, and so he launched into another tirade of history about his building of the company.

Had Don truly thought for a moment, he may have realized that it was that very history that drove and motivated the man who now stood before him perfectly executing a plan which had formed in a young mind so many years beforehand. Whether the offer was generous or antagonistic was unknown but those in the room clearly saw James’ disappointment when Don rejected the offer to take the role of an executive mute. Some presumed James had more lessons in store for the man who had abandoned him and his young mother so early in life. Others thought he was holding out for a reconciliation of sort. Regardless, it was clear that Don’s unhinged response had slammed closed the only window of redemption his son would grant him. When Don’s outburst ended with a thinly veiled appeal to “Jimmy’s sense of family loyalty,” James made him aware that he hadn’t gone by that name since he was eight years old and unceremoniously fired him on the spot.

With the insults and accusations behind them, the company changed hands and avoided the burden of having to recast a single marketing brochure, letterhead or logo. Customers, investors, bankers and employees who took the buyout with a patient optimism had their loyalty rewarded by Rockwell’s complete turnaround in less than a year. Meanwhile, Don engaged in another short-lived marriage, a failed business venture and by the following year he had filed for personal bankruptcy. Somewhere among the long passing of empty days, Don Rockwell came to appreciate that a father can only miss so many birthday parties.

Mile 25

Anxiety washed over him as Stephen was reminded of how critical the appointment was to the future of his business and the future of his family. In a worst case scenario, which was catastrophic and also the most likely scenario according in Stephen’s mind, James Rockwell was going to follow the industry trend and pull back on development. The strategic direction would subsequently eliminate the firm’s need for Stephen’s contract work. On the other end of the spectrum, Stephen held on to the hope that he could not only keep Rockwell’s business, but possibly find a way to increase the work they were sending his way. As much as he wanted to treat the meeting like any other customer call, he was well aware that the practical reality was a make or break meeting. The family’s cash flow was well beyond running tight and like him, it had been exhausted. Rockwell represented too much of his business and there simply wasn’t another option.

For an instant his mind wandered and found a distant commonality with the character of Bud Fox from the movie Wall Street before his life changing meeting with the celebrated financier, Gordon Gekko. “Life all comes down to a few moments. This is one of them.” The cinematic parallel did nothing to ease Stephen’s emerging tension as he recalled that Bud Fox eventually went to jail.

“Have you met with Mr. Rockwell before?”

“No. I mean, not face to face. I haven’t, I haven’t had the pleasure.” He mentally chastised himself for the abrupt response to the assistant’s pleasant invitation at conversation. Paranoid his comments could be taken as rude, he did his best to steady the tone of his voice, fearing that the slightest quiver would reveal the avalanche of anxiety he frailly sustained by the toothpick of his nerves.

Overly focused on voice control Stephen followed up, “I really appreciate the work we’ve been able to do together and I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

They arrived at the glass door to Rockwell’s corner office. The assistant politely raised a hand for them to pause as she observed her boss finishing a phone call. “We’ll wait here until he’s finished. He doesn’t like to have people in his office while he’s on the phone. He thinks it’s rude to both parties. A quick tip if you’re up for it.”

“Absolutely.”

“When you’re in there, give him your full and undivided attention. Because regardless of what he looks like he’s doing he’s going to be entirely focused on you while you’re in there.”

“Thanks. I appreciate knowing that.”

Stephen saw Rockwell complete his call and immediately rise from his leather high back chair. He opened the door with a pleasant but direct voice, “Stephen Lantz? I’m James Rockwell. Thank you for coming by today.”

“Hello sir. Thanks for taking the time to see me.” Stephen eased into the room without assumption.

“Not at all. I’ve heard about the work you’ve been doing for us and it’s good to meet you in person.” Rockwell motioned for Stephen to sit at one of the tufted upholstered armchairs on the far side of the office. Rockwell himself took a seat in the single Queen Anne chair opposite him. The office was not overdone with showmanship but instead, it breathed a sophisticated purpose as if every item in the office was there to tell a story.

Concerned the crinkly water bottle would expose his internal fears, Stephen took the initiative to pick the top coaster off a stack at the end of the glass table which expanded the divide between them. He took a final sip and gently rested the obnoxious noisemaker. Then, as if a vacuum had sucked out all the air in the room, Rockwell leaned back in his chair and began to silently examine Stephen. Ten horrifying seconds of pure silence took hours to pass as Rockwell stared directly at him. Beyond awkward, the silence became distressing. Stephen was at a loss for his next move but somehow knew that speaking was out of the question. Engaged by the retinal, he resisted the urge to let his eyes wander. In his peripheral he lent minor attention to a row of elegant bookshelves, hung plaques, a framed letter on the opposing wall; anything to distract from Rockwell’s critically-invasive observance.

He was studying. He was learning. In the silence, James Rockwell was reading Stephen like a book. As if having just finished the last page with the satisfactory closure of the back cover, Rockwell took a breath and leaned into Stephen, purely confident and burning with intensity.

Clearly intending to act as if the excruciating void in time had not just occurred, Rockwell opened the conversation with a pleasant tone. “Stephen, it’s out of appreciation for that good work that I’ve asked you to come by today.”

“Thank you for the business.” Stephen exhaled and was firmly conscience that he would not be in control of the conversation. There would be no pleasantries, no small talk, no in-depth rapport building. James Rockwell would drive their discussion and Stephen would do his best to hang on for the ride.

“I need to share something with you. Most of which, you are likely already aware of.” As he spoke, Rockwell’s eyes seemed to narrow and sharpen the point of each word he released. “Stephen, the industry is struggling. A lot of companies out there are still being negatively impacted by the rapid valuation declines we saw in the housing market three and four years ago. Several people, and a lot of Wall Street analysts, still expect the commercial market to be the next industry to fall. The banks have tied up their lenders and they’re hoarding cash. I’m sure you recall that the banks received a massive cash infusion from the government a while back. Well, they never put it into the system as the Treasury Secretary had hoped they would. And since that government check came with no requirements or mandates, the banks used the cash to firm up their balance sheets and pay out bonuses to their most highly compensated employees.”

“It’s been a tough road. For everyone.” Stephen chimed in, aware of exactly what Rockwell was talking about. He had seen his business go dry from the drastic cuts in bank funding and companies losing their cash flow in the middle of sizeable projects. Unable to complete the project and unable to sustain the costs of maintaining a partially built property, several firms had no choice but to go out of business.

“Yes, yes it has. And it’s my belief that the markets are not going to recover in some rapid snap-back. It’ll take time.” Rockwell was habitually calculated in his words and leaned his elbows on the armrests with his hands interlocked. He seemed completely comfortable as he described the economic environment that threatened to tear apart his industry. Despite the grim storytelling, Stephen saw no sign of distress in the man.

“Stephen, the reality is that our company here is not immune to these difficult situations. Last year we had eight hundred thousand square footage in progress regionally. Our bank partners have since backed off and will only commit to finishing off our existing developments. They won’t back us to fund new properties.”

A cold wave flushed across Stephen’s face. He knew where this conversation was going. New property developments were the very thing his company worked on. Without them, Rockwell would have no need to contract commercial appraisers like him. The loss of the Rockwell account would be a death stroke to their small business. Stephen could see down the road of this conversation and every sign pointed to him going out of business. He immediately thought of Hailey and Sarah. His family and particularly his marriage had come so far from the bottom, having gone through the point of nearly drowning and yet they had struggled to break through the surface and recapture a breath, only for another wave to come crashing into them.

Taking a lesson from Rockwell himself, Stephen tried his hand at the direct tone, “So you need to scale back property acquisitions? I assume that will impact your need for commercial appraisers.”

They had lost possessions before and as difficult as it was, the Lantz family made it through. This would be different. Stephen thought through the steps of telling his wife. Sarah would be supportive; her commitment to their family was unwavering now. The thought of her embrace calmed his nerves even though he didn’t have the first clue as to how they could get through this apparent financial devastation.

Rockwell responded, “We’re going to cancel the majority of our outsourced services. And, yes, that includes commercial appraisal companies like yours.”

Jeez, this guy doesn’t beat around the bush.

Stephen took the hit in stride and kept his composure despite the distraction of being taken aback. His fingers rubbed his clammy palms in an effort to hide his fidgeting.

“I realize this is tough for your business, Stephen. You’ve been through this sort of cutback before, right?”

“Yes. We’ve seen tough times before.” Stephen’s facade of professionalism began to slip as he saw the grip on opportunity slide through his fingers. “Have to say we haven’t fully recovered from them yet.”

“You used to work for George McDowell, right?” Rockwell emerged from his chair and walked over to the window in what seemed to be an uncharacteristic moment of distant thought.

The question hit Stephen from left field and scrambled his thoughts. Why would Rockwell bring up George McDowell, someone Stephen hadn’t spoken to in years? “Yes. Um, yes. I was with him for about 10 years.”

“That didn’t end too well, did it?” Rockwell’s gaze returned to Stephen.

“No, I can’t say that it did.” Stephen racked his brain to make sense of the conversation.

“George is a longtime friend of mine. It was my first property acquisition. George set up the joint venture with me so we could secure the funding. At the time, I brought very little to the table and George generously treated me as an equal partner.”

Stephen’s mind went into overdrive.

Was he kidding? James Rockwell was the blazing comet of the commercial development industry and George McDowell had given this guy his first leg up?

With a poised and stoic stance, Rockwell continued, “I trust George McDowell’s word… emphatically. You should know that George and I recently had a chance to catch up.”

Stephen thoughts hit a moment of realization.

Holy crap, what did I say to McDowell in that last meeting? Is that what this was all about? I burnt that bridge and now this was some sort of long-term retribution being played out by McDowell?

Stephen could only take shallow breaths as he realized the meeting was about to conclude. Stephen retrieved the noisemaker off the coaster and took a careless gulp from the bottle, completely unconcerned with the impolite crackling from the bottle.

Caring little for the rudeness or impropriety while finishing the last few drops, Stephen held the bottle against his lip for a brief extra second. Without warning, a reflective flash off the office window caught the center of his eye. Instead of cringing from it, Stephen starred at the glimmer. He felt the warmness of the light coming into him as he strained to keep focused on the reflection of light. The brightness reminded him of the abandoned car he had irresponsibly attacked during an afternoon run the prior year. In a moment’s instant he recalled the feeling of helplessness, the lack of control, the unhindered rage he had unleashed on the vehicle. Then he thought about the blinding glimmer from the broken mirror which had nagged at him with defiance. His only concern back then had been for himself. He had become some enraged by everything that had happened to him, he hadn’t seen the pain his own anger and distance was causing his family. Back then, he could only see his own pain and by dwelling on it, it had hurt him more. But hadn’t the thing which pushed him over the edge, the foreclosure, hadn’t it worked out? He had lashed out in anger and desperation and a solution had been presented. With the benefit of hindsight, Stephen was seeing more clearly now. He could see that in this very moment his anger was forming, he could see it building, and he could see it emerging just as it had with the car. He pondered that just as he had no idea that his father would offer to sell his house and rescue them from foreclosure, he had no idea how they would make it past the loss of the Rockwell account. But a solution would be presented. For some reason, he knew it would. Whatever came from this meeting, he didn’t have to dwell on it. He would find a way to move forward and not adopt a mindset of unjustified anger as if he were constantly begrudging a world bent against him. Stephen wasn’t that man anymore.

His pulse eased and a calm began to drift over him. As he gently reached over to set the bottle back onto the table, he felt the gripping of a presence closing in around him. Unlike his previous emotions, this presence was warm, resting, even encouraging. By the time Stephen placed the bottle onto the coaster his mind was clear, his nerves settled and his palms were dry. Stephen was at peace with whatever came next.

“Mr. Rockwell,” Stephen’s voice was controlled and calmed as he began to speak, his view of Rockwell obstructed by the afterglow of the sunspot still reflecting in his vision. “Mr. McDowell is someone who gave me an opportunity also. When his company closed I was pretty upset. I didn’t treat him well at our last meeting and given the chance, I’d make it right with him. But however he feels about me, which is probably very justified, I still respect him and have a great deal of admiration for him as a businessman and also as a friend.”

Rockwell remained near the window but turned to face Stephen. Without even acknowledging Stephen’s mea culpa he continued, “Next year we are expanding from twenty five acres to seventy five acres of titled land as we increase our square footage to 1.2 million square feet.”

“You’re expanding?” Rockwell had shot another curve ball at him and Stephen was perplexed at the disconnect between hard times and the idea of more acquisitions.

“Yes. Aggressively. I don’t believe the talk about this being the new normal. It’s a strong correction and it’s done a lot of damage, but there’s usually opportunity among chaos and I plan to go after it, hard.”

“But what about… what you just said about the funding?”

“I said our banks were out. That doesn’t mean I am. People think the commercial real estate market is going the way of residential. Stephen, I am not one of those people. Furthermore, neither are the people who are partnering with me to fund a series of joint-venture acquisitions.”

“Lenders?”

“Not lenders, partners. We won’t borrow a cent. And these aren’t venture capitalist who will expect my dedicated attention until they look for an exit in three years. These are investors who will be active for the long term. If we have capital issues then we’ll pause and just shift to smaller, more nimble developments. We won’t be one of those companies that sit on a partially built property while having to make payments.”

“So you’re acquiring new properties but still cancelling appraisal contracts?” Stephen’s voice disclosed a glimmer of hope that there might be an opportunity in all this new information.

“Yes, that’s correct. We have an aggressive plan so we can’t be held up while vendor companies deal with their own industry and personnel issues. We’re going to internalize those operations. Rockwell Development needs people who are completely committed to the growth of our company and the only way to guarantee that is if we do it ourselves.”

“So you’ll hire appraisers instead of using contractors?”

“Yes, several. Appraisers will be a large part of a newly formed acquisition division organized specifically for the purpose of positioning Rockwell Development for the future.” Rockwell followed Stephen’s thought process and knocked it off the tracks before the train went too far. “But Stephen, I don’t want to hire you as a commercial appraiser.”

Right back to the same point.

The curve balls, plentiful as they were, didn’t seem to matter as Stephen was still going out of business. But his sense of peace was a blanket comforting and shielding him from the relentless cutting of anxiety.

“The reason I called McDowell earlier the other week wasn’t to catch up with him. It was to talk about you, Stephen.”

Confused and somewhat taken aback again, yet calm in spirit and becoming more relaxed, Stephen was still having a very difficult time keeping up with Rockwell’s pace.

“George told me the hardest thing he had to do when his company went under was let you go. You weren’t just his best appraiser, he said you built a culture in that company that allowed it to become the success it was. He thinks very highly of you, Stephen. And like I said, I trust George McDowell’s word emphatically.”

Without waiting for a response, Rockwell continued, “I believe George’s exact words were, ‘Stephen Lantz had been more than instrumental, but critical at turning vision into a reality’. Well, Stephen. I’ve got a new vision for Rockwell Development. That vision needs leaders to make it a reality. So what do you say? Will you be my new vice-president of property acquisitions?”

Stephen, head lost in the vortex, wanted to respond but couldn’t put the words together quick enough for James Rockwell.

“If you do this, I realize it will mean closing your appraisal business. I understand that is a difficult consideration. I can appreciate the freedom of being a business owner but we both know it has a down side. Financially speaking, I’ve reviewed our contracts with your company. Your salary will equate to a little more than three times the amount of our current relationship. It is my expectation that your new salary would compensate you for not having other contracts besides Rockwell. If it’s not, let me know. I’m pretty determined to bring you on board so I’m content to discuss it further.”

Calm. Steady. Moving from resting to hopeful. Take it in before speaking.

“I’m also aware of your daughter’s health. Hailey, right? George mentioned her. How old is she now?”

“Yes, Hailey is our thirteen year old.”

“I understand she’s gotten better, is that right?”

“Yes, sir. The cancer is still in remission but she’s having complications.” Stephen’s brain was racing and he still struggled to connect his words.

“Complications?” Rockwell’s voice expressed a heartfelt concern to hear more.

“Um, complications from prior treatments. She has some vision problems and some of the medicines impacted the development of her joints in her legs so sometimes she needs to use a wheelchair. But she’ll grow out of that as her body catches up. She’s… she’s a fighter.”

“Well, I’m very sorry to hear that she has to fight. But I have no doubt she’s as persevering as you are.” Rockwell’s sentiments came across genuine and even compassionate, despite his direct pace and reserved use of words.

“Stephen, we have an excellent benefits package which would include medical benefits to cover any of the treatments Hailey needs. We’ll make sure she gets the best treatment. If you’re working for Rockwell, Hailey becomes part of this family as well. And Stephen, I personally make sure we take care of our family.”

Stephen could tell James Rockwell’s words were the commitments he never heard while growing up. The determination in his voice expressed a very intentional change from his father’s view of family and there was no doubt he would absolutely follow through for the people in his company.

“Thank you.”

“This is a lot for you to consider, I realize that. But I need to let you know we’re moving pretty fast. Would a week’s time be enough to discuss this with your wife and get back to me? If you two decide we’re all on the same page then we can talk about a timeline to get you in the door.”

His mind attempted to balance a whole new range of emotions as Stephen tried to digest the feast of information Rockwell had hurriedly placed before him. “Yes, a week would be plenty of time. Yes, thank you.”

Wait. What just happened here?

Mile 26

The ping of the elevator signaled his arrival to the lobby level. Stephen could barely recall the final moments of his meeting. After being extended the job opportunity, Rockwell had wrapped up their time together with a brief encouragement about the future.

“What just happened?” he reiterated to a vacant elevator as it revealed the active hallway and foyer.

Stephen hovered through the lobby in a daze and out the glass doors into a brilliance of sunlight. Walking down the limestone stairs he attempted to flip through a mental checklist.

Need to put validation stickers on garage ticket. Need to buy a new suit. Does Rockwell need a resume? Did he even ask for one? Need to finish outstanding appraisal work. Need to call Sarah first, talk to her about closing S&S. How do you even close a company down? Did I say I would call him or email him with an answer?

His mind was a flush of faint bullet points, each breaking free of his imaginary checklist and trickling off into the midday air before he could get a handle on them. He simply couldn’t hold a thought and when he stopped to look around he saw the lush green grass and scattered oaks of the park he had aimlessly wandered into. Continuing to walk, he released his vain attempt at tracking bullet points and allowed his thoughts to rest freely. Breathing in deeply his lungs filled with encouragement, with stability, with hope… with peace. Stephen looked up to the sky and outstretched his arms in humility and gratitude.

The noise of the excited crowd was unexpectedly sudden as he rounded the corner, almost as if they were waiting for Stephen to reveal himself before the roaring applause began. The course was becoming more dense with onlookers yelling out their encouragements.

“Keep it up, you’re almost there!”

“Looking strong! Way to go.”

“Great pace!”

“Less than a mile to go. You got this!”

Less than a mile?

Stephen gave a puzzling glance to the encouraging spectator who was already cheering on another oncoming runner. In his mental drifting, Stephen’s body had carried him across an unknown mile with minimal cognitive commitment. With his body on empty, fueled by little more than willpower and spikes of adrenaline, Stephen fought the soreness which grasped the length of his entire body and extended his stride to increase his pace for a final push to the finish.

Something happens to the mind when it realizes the body is about to do what it didn’t think it could do. Stephen’s mind burst with emotions as it made the connection between task at hand and the eventual certainty of crossing the finish line; a finish line which held so much more to him than the completion of 26.2 miles. From the time of his initial deployment, he had been fighting to finish a race with no finish line in sight. The struggles his family incurred along the road had not been smooth; some travels had pruned him while others crushed him. But in spite of the difficulties, he could feel the strength each turn had added, placing him onto the path where he could genuinely appreciate the yearning for perseverance and the accomplishment of the grand feat before him. His mind melded the pairing of contradictions between his pain and gratitude, his solitude and community, his despondence and his joy. As Sarah would tell him, it had all been used for good.

The crowd grew increasingly energized as he approached the final quarter mile. Distant noises which previously sounded as urban echoes now revealed their origin. He stole glances past the block’s spacing between the city buildings and could see the crowd in flashes as if they were dancing in glimmers of an old film reel.

Stephen picked up a rhythmic cadence from the distant music and emphasized each breath, causing his chest to expand and contract to the quickened beat of his own feet. Each yearning from his lungs sucked in air as if it were coal fueling the train down the tracks. His body still ached in pivotal places but tendons no longer resisted him as they fell to the will of his mind’s desire. His stride was steady and seemingly oblivious to the hours of punishment he had put them through. Previously failing legs procured new life and propelled his body forward with determined might. As a result, he passed several other runners who hobbled about, having succumbed to their bodily pains and failing to recover for the final push to the finish.

Stephen saw the crowd had reached capacity and people lined the street shoulder to shoulder congratulating and encouraging each pained runner which passed. They fed off Stephen’s energetic display of fortitude and their voices rose to an approving eruption. Flags streaming along the crowd barriers told him that he was close to the finish. With the music pumping and his body drifting across the pavement, he emerged around the final turn and saw an archway within sight with a giant banner which had the word FINISH written across it. He could feel the wind blowing cool sweat off his face amid deep breaths and his pounding heart. He looked up and sprinted through the final steps at his fastest pace yet. His head elevated and his arms outstretched to feel the glory of the late morning sun. An uncontrollable smile burst from within at the change in texture he felt as his foot pounded onto the slightly raised blue mat of the finish line.

A small army of volunteers stood just beyond the finish line to greet and encourage runners. They held a stack of medals in their arms and met each of the finishers in a personalized private ceremony, draping them with a finisher’s medal while meeting them with a warm smiles and congratulatory praises. Stephen saw a particularly joyful volunteer staring directly at him. His face fell into a smile as he began walking towards her. With the unpleasant reminder of the day’s torturous journey, his muscles stabbed at his back and then stiffened into a tight knot when he attempted to lean over to be presented with his medal. He laughed and instead offered an awkward tilt of the neck to her.

The volunteer grinned her large cheeks while pursing her lips and crossed her arms, causing the three dozen or so medals she was carrying to clank together. She exaggerated her head from side as if she were declining a child’s request for a cupcake before dinnertime, “Uh-uh… I’m sorry, honey. I do NOT have a medal for you.”

Stephen stood confused between a mix of disbelief and physical disability, “Huh? Are you serious? I mean, I’m sure I smell pretty bad but… really?”

“Honey, your medal is waiting for you over there.” She stepped aside and pointed further down the finisher’s chute.

Toward the end, Stephen saw a swarm of people moving around a food and beverage section. It was chaotic and filled with the buzz of overjoyed runners still riding high from the euphoria of crossing the finish line. Then, among the shifting sea of torsos, he saw them. Sarah stood behind their daughter, waved at him and reached her neck up for a better view of his location. Hailey, still using the wheelchair for precautionary purposes, was saying something to her mother and attempting to see from her lowered vantage point.

Stephen began moving forward, shuffling his way past the limping bodies. Unable to see through the masses, he focused on the area he had glimpsed Sarah and continued pressing forward. His body fought in vain for attention, yet none could be spared and he blocked out everything else as a single thought hovered in his mind.

They are absolutely beautiful.

Hailey saw him and her eyes popped with excitement. Her smile broke through and overwhelmed his physical pain, emulating the sight of the sun’s refreshing beauty as it breaks morning over a misty pond. Her long sandy blonde hair danced in the wind along with the strings from her purple hoodie. She had a finisher’s medal draped around her neck. Sarah, with her hands resting on Hailey’s shoulders, gave him a flirtatious grin and winked. As Stephen began moving closer, Hailey reached down and grabbed the padded armrests to begin pushing her body upwards. Concern swept over Stephen and he quickened his pace to help his fragile daughter. Sarah placed a hand on Hailey’s arm and said something he could not make out, but Hailey appeared to reassure her and removed her foot from the rest.

Stephen arrived to them at the moment Hailey unsteadily came completely to her feet. “Hey there, sweetheart.”

“Congratulations Daddy! You did it!” Hailey lifted the medal off her own neck and lovingly placed it over Stephen’s head. “I think you’ve earned this.”

He received his medal and held her shoulder, not really certain who was stabilizing whom. “Thank you, Hailey.” He kissed her forehead. “Sweetheart, I didn’t think you were going to make it but I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Hey darlin’, you look like you need Hailey’s chair.” Sarah came around, hugged them both and placed a gentle kiss on Stephen’s lips. “I’m so proud of you. But I never doubted for a second that you could do it.”

“Well,” the calm of his voice resonated with satisfaction, “I might have to admit at least a couple of seconds of doubt.”

Hailey took his hand and interlocked her fingers into his, “Daddy, how do you feel?”

Stephen stared at her in a drifting pause before exhaling and letting out a jovial yet pained laugh, “Good. I feel really good.” He paused for a moment and considered his state, “But, I think. Yes, I’m also really sore. You might need to carry me home.”

Sarah interjected, “Well, my love, as much as I would do anything for you, that isn’t going to happen at the moment. You should probably change your shirt!”

Fingers still intertwined with Hailey, Stephen grabbed Sarah by the waist and pulled her closer. He paused and looked around, taking in the moment with a deep breath that he held and savored. Releasing the pain, the frustration, the anger, the regrets and resentments; those hindrances which had burdened him for so long, he let each of them go. Standing victorious in the finisher’s area, holding in his arms the most precious people in his life, he felt peace. Its presence was welcome but this time it wasn’t alone. Something else tugged at him, something that now wanted to be a part of his life. It took him only a brief moment to recognize the feeling as a sense of appreciating the world around him. It brought him a thankfulness not just for the specialness of this moment, but for every moment ahead of him. Stephen lifted his head and closed his eyes skyward. He released a joyful sigh and then allowed the brilliance of the beautiful day to wash over him.

After a moment, Sarah affectionately squeezed his hand as other finishers continued to shuffle past them toward the finishing area, “We should probably get moving.”

Opening his eyes, he kissed Sarah on the forehead. “Yeah, babe. You’re right.” He grabbed the handrails of Hailey’s wheelchair and began helping her towards the race exit. “Besides, we still need to swing by and pick up my father.”

Sarah responded with disconnected confusion, “Your what?”

Hailey registered the passing comment and chirped in, “Grandpa’s here? Who brought Grandpa to the race?”

The Cool Down

“Has anyone seen my purple hair brush?” The bellowing from upstairs continued, “I have to use the purple brush. It’s the only one that gets the knots out without tearing my hair! Does anyone know where it is?”

Stephen’s baritone voice returned the bellowing, “Hailey, sweetheart. I really have no idea know where your brush is. But are you still in the shower?”

She emerged from her room and began down the stairs, still drying wet hair. “I’m out, Dad. I think I left might have left my brush on Mom’s sink.” Stephen pressed against the wall as Hailey hurriedly scooted past him, long wet hair being tossed around by the gyrations of her towel slapped him in the face as she flew past him on the stairs.

“Dad, tomorrow night I need to go over to Jessica’s house. Her mom’s helping us put together the banner for Friday’s pep rally. I really need to be there. So you can take me to Jessica’s, right?”

“Not tomorrow, Hailey. I’ll ask Mom to take you. Remember that I’m having Mr. Ray come by the house tomorrow.”

“For another counseling session?” Hailey responded passively.

“For a chat.”

“I think it’s neat that you guys are… chatting. He’s cool.” She looked at Stephen’s attire and without missing a breath she asked, “Are you and Mom headed off for another run?”

“Yeah, we should be back in about an hour or so.”

“Alright. But remember, you said you would go to church with us today. You promised and we can’t be late.”

“Right. Yeah, I’m on board.” Stephen glanced down at his recent birthday present. The watch measured his heart rate, his pace, and even his current elevation. What he couldn’t find was the actual time of day. He pressed buttons that made an awkward beeping alert, which only announced his lack of familiarity with the seemingly space-aged technology. “I’m sure we’ll be back with plenty of time to get ready.”

“Okay…” Hailey responded in a condescending voice that only a teenage girl could deliver. “Oh BTW, Grandpa’s coming with us to the potluck dinner tonight too.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, he hasn’t been very social since Grandma passed. He’s overdue.” Hailey wandered through the living room, found her phone and instantly began punching away at the screen’s letters.

Stephen followed her and said, “And you asked Grandpa if he wanted to go to the dinner with us, right?” Eye contact had been lost and he was now having a conversation with the top of his daughter’s towel twirled head.

“Sure! We talked about it last night.” Her head still focused on the phone.

“Sweetheart, Grandpa doesn’t talk. He makes motions with his hand, remember?”

“Uh-huh.” Hailey exhibited her minimal attention span.

“Hailey, when you were having this conversation with Grandpa were you looking at him, or your phone?”

“Dad!” Her head shot up causing her towel to slip into her hand as she displayed a pose of pure and absolute shock, “I cannot be expected to remember intricate details of every conversation.”

Stephen was only pretty sure he wasn’t going to respond to this sassy display.

She gave him a cheeky smile, “But silence is consent. Right, Dad?”

“Well, I suppose in this case, it’s alright.”

Hailey’s attention shifted again and she darted upstairs, phone in one hand, towel in the other, purple brush in neither. “Okay. I’ll let Grandpa know when he needs to start getting dressed for church. You guys have a good run but don’t be late; okay?”

“Alright, we’ll be back in time. Thanks, sweetheart.” His voice trailed after her but never made it past the empty stairs.

He turned and murmured to an empty room, “And… you forgot your hair brush.”

He opened the front door and stepped onto the wooden deck. The door closed behind him and without looking, Stephen outstretched his arm and made a fist. His arm lingered in the air for a brief moment before Tom’s fist reached up from grasping the chair’s armrest and connected with a bump.

Stephen pulled in a long, deep draw of breath and slowly exhaled, feeling the gentle tickle of a soft breeze feathering across his skin. “Wow. This is a beautiful day. Isn’t it, Dad?”

Tom picked his coffee cup off the armrest, gave Stephen a reassuring grunt and resumed rocking the creaky old wooden chair.

“Yeah. One heck of a beautiful day.” Stephen took in a deep breath to appreciate the moment.

“Hey there! You gonna stand around or you gonna lace up?” Sarah called out to him as she leaned over from a hamstring stretch at the end of their walkway.

“Oh… I’m laced up alright. Laced up and geared up, good-lookin’.”

From the distance, Sarah flirted back with a wink, “Then I hope you brought the Icy Hot ’cause those bones sure aren’t getting any younger,”

Stephen looked across the wooden porch, “Ya know, I was thinking there might be room enough on this porch for two rocking chairs.”

“Oh? Are you planning on taking up a career of rocking a noisy old chair, talking about the good old days and yelling at the teenagers for driving by too fast?

“There could be worse ways to spend weekends.” Stephen offered.

“You sure Tom wants the company?” Sarah laughed.

“Maybe not. But it still sounds like an interesting way to pass the time between races. But first things first, we gotta get you trained up and ready.”

Sarah playfully replied, “Well, my race is two months away. So today’s training is only a six-miler. You okay with that Mr. Marathon?”

Stephen met her smile and popped a quick peck on her lips. “Six miles or twenty-six miles, the plan is all the same, Hon. We’re just going to put one foot in front of the other and repeat.”

“Well, let’s get started then.” Sarah started them out on a brisk walk and Stephen quickly caught up.

As their warm up pace steadied into a slight jog she looked at him, “So I never asked but I get the sense you’re not done with this whole race thing. You gonna run another marathon?”

“I don’t know.” Stephen pondered dramatically and then gave his wife an expression of guilt pleasure, “But I was looking at some races online last night.”

“Find anything coming up that interest you?”

“Yeah. Sort of. You ever hear of this thing called an ultramarathon?”

“An ultramarathon? Are you serious?” Sarah looked at him in disbelief and then broke into a dash, leaving him behind. Without looking over her shoulder she yelled out, “You’re unbelievable.”

“Wait! Unbelievable in a good way, right?” Sarah’s quickened pace put distance between them and Stephen stumbled into a run to try and catch her, “In a good way… right babe… Sarah… Sarah…?”

Reading Group Guide

The struggle of a physical challenge paralleled to the difficulties faced in his everyday life is only part of Stephen Lantz’ war. Through a story which is broadly about perseverance and relationships, the following questions are intended to help you dive deeper into the motivations behind 26 & Change. May this guide serve as a companion to your discussion and an enrichment to your fellowship.

1. What is the author attempting to convey about the struggles military families deal with?

2. Stephen tends to internalize the fears and insecurities he has about running a marathon. Do fears or insecurities ever prevent you from doing something you truly desire?

3. As the race begins, Stephen feels out of place among the race crowd and it causes him to become frustrated with other participants. When people find themselves in an unsettling situation why do their thoughts often turn to criticism of others? How can this be prevented?

4. Military deployments are disruptive enough for families without the compounded impact of an illness. How do you think Stephen grew during his deployments?

5. During Stephen’s first deployment, Sara responded to not knowing if Stephen was alive by allowing fear to dominate her into a dark helplessness. How do you think Sara’s emotional responses grew as time progressed?

6. Why do you think Stephen’s acceptance of a voluntary deployment turned out to be a mental burden for him? How do you think not telling Sarah contributed to the struggles in their marriage?

7. When Stephen’s squad saw the boy with the weapon their bravado stopped. What emotions do you think went through the members of the squad when they realized their enemy was not always what they thought him to be? How do you think those emotions can continue to burden the soldier even after the war?

8. Expecting the worse, Stephen prayed for another chance to hold his daughter and love his wife. If you lived your life as if you were about to die, whom would you reach out to? Whom would you ask for forgiveness from?

9. Mayweather is initially shocked and afraid at the sight of seeing his friend being pulled from the building. Why then, does he proceed to joke and harass Stephen when he’s rescued?

10. Have you ever attended a Purple Heart Ceremony? If so, please share your experience. If not, consider making plans to share the gratitude of a grateful nation with our wounded warriors.

11. When McDowell’s company goes out of business, why do you think Stephen could only respond with anger towards his mentor?

12. Sadly, many marriages do not make it through the stress and turmoil of a child with prolonged illness. What were some of the key characteristics Rebecca displayed which were instrumental in helping her son’s family stay together?

13. On the brink of a bank foreclosure, Stephen is embarrassed to face his father despite Tom’s attempt to be an encouragement. Why do you think people impute their expectations onto others when they are actually the ones disappointed with themselves?

14. Counselor Ray approaches Stephen’s denial about PTSD in a passive way. Discuss some of the actions Ray used to connect with Stephen and build rapport. Why was it important he not treat Stephen with “kid gloves”?

15. While holding Sarah in the midst of unknown tragedy, Stephen repeated Ray’s words to himself and they became a pillar of strength for him. What criteria should we use to find words which will truly support us in the face of tragedy?

16. Rebecca’s friends were always encouraging to Stephen. Why do you think Stephen resisted the idea of building relationships with people in his mother’s church?

17. Tom’s generosity with his house became a gift Stephen couldn’t hope to repay. How did it impact the way Stephen viewed his father? How did Stephen and Sara decide to express their appreciation to Tom?

18. What did Stephen gain by finding the strength to break through the “runners’ wall”? What did he lose?

19. At the end of the book, what do you think Stephen’s views on “his mother’s” church are and why? Do you think he will make it to the pot-luck? Where does he go from there?

20. In 26 & Change, you observed Stephen and his family working through the challenges of a modern military family. As you think about the war, the financial crisis and the housing bust, have any of the challenges from the book paralleled your life situation?

About The Author

Deacon Rie lives in the Texas Hill Country with his wife, children and a variety of animals that possess an incredible knack for becoming pets. He has a background in psychology, finance and law and works with multiple non-profits which serve economically disadvantaged families as well as classical education. His hobbies include writing, endurance events and the pursuit of a race well run.

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One Last Thing…

If you enjoyed this book or found it impactful, I would be extremely very grateful if you would post a short review on Amazon.com or your literary provider of choice. Besides helping to promote the work, your support really does make a difference as I personally read all reviews to obtain feedback and make future books even better. Thanks again for your support and for taking your time to read this book.

-Deacon Rie

Copyright

San Antonio, Texas

26 & Change. Copyright © 2018 by Alamo Publishing, LLC

All Right Reserved.

Published in the United States

by Alamo Publishing, LLC; DBA Alamo House Publishing, San Antonio, Texas

www.alamohousepublishing.com

Cover art by designcraftive.com

eBook edition

ISBN: 978-0-9995412-1-0

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and specific incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, individuals’ experiences among public events or locales is unintended and entirely coincidental.

License Notes

All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system for the intent of resale or given to others without the prior express written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews or other noncommercial uses permitted by US copyright law.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment and use only. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. Thank you for respecting the time, creativity, hard work and dedication of the author and their publisher.

Content

Deacon Rie
26 & CHANGE

The Starting Line

Mile 1

Mile 2

Mile 3

Mile 4

Mile 5

Mile 6

Mile 7

Mile 8

Mile 9

Mile 10

Mile 11

Mile 12

Mile 13

Mile 14

Mile 15

Mile 16

Mile 17

Mile 18

Mile 19

Mile 20

Mile 21

Mile 22

Mile 23

Mile 24

Mile 25

Mile 26

The Cool Down

Reading Group Guide

About The Author

One Last Thing…

Copyright