Two urns sat atop the highest shelf inside the corner curio-cabinet. Two little wood boxes that, for as long as Lawrence could remember, he only saw the sealed lids peeking out over chestnut rows. As he grew, the cabinet shrank. By twelve, he could almost reach the top shelf. Now on the cusp of eighteen, he could look them face-to-face, read their dates, their names carved in wood, painted in chipped, fading pink and blue enamel paint; David and Ashley.

"Lawrence," his mother called from the kitchen. She came waddling out, wood spoon covered in green mash still in her hand. "Your father's walking up now. Go, go, go."

Lawrence looked out the window to his left. Brows narrowed and lips flattened to a frown at seeing a man through lopsided blinds. Once shut in his bedroom, he turned off the lights, stood still in the dark until his ears rang in desperation to hear something. The squeaky hinges of the side door squealed on the other side of his bedroom door. The rusty doorframe slapped shut. He pressed his ear to the rough and hollow wood panels.

Margaret greeted Jacob the same way every night when he came home from work with a timid, "hello, dear," in a tone that bare-footedly stepped around a billion shards of glass.

"What did you make for dinner?" he'd ask, but it never sounded like a question. Of course, she'd always have a plate warmed and sitting on a placemat to protect the beat-up tabletop that was usually his first victim. The safest times were the ones when he was occupied with something. Either food, listening to the radio, or reading the papers. Work was the best distraction because he wasn't home. Margaret didn't ask or say anything during his quiet time. That would just rile him up, so she'd sit patiently with him, refill his glass if it was empty or clean up in the kitchen but she was always nearby.

"—says you were talking to the neighbors."

"Y-yes," Margaret replied. "I needed to borrow flour—"

He thumped the table. Through the second of silence that came after, Lawrence could almost hear him turning his head to Margaret. His mind's eye envisioned how Jacob craned his neck further and stared right into her bulging eyes as she holds her breath because that's how it always started. Jacob grumbled, "I told you not to talk to the neighbors."

Their voices hushed. Silverware clinked on Jacob's plate. Lawrence's eyes unfocused on the yellow light slipping underneath the door. He pressed his body to the wood and held his breath. Thrumming beats quickened in his chest, pounding loud enough to muffle the murmurs beyond the hallway. His mother's voice was only noted by the high pitch, but her words never left the kitchen table. Lawrence's stomach dropped. His mouth dried. He pushed harder against the door, vying to hear over his thrashing heart. It was too quiet out there. Not the good kind of silence. This was the calm before the storm.

Margaret yelped.

She whimpered at a growled threat Lawrence couldn't discern. He didn't need to know what was said though. He already ripped open the door, nails digging in his palms as he trampled through the living room. Both his parents' heads shot up to him. Jacob glared at the young man. Margaret raised her hands pleadingly, but her son saw nothing beyond the red mark added to her cheek.

"Get back in your room!" Jacob shouted, his fist slamming the table, but Lawrence wouldn't be intimidated.

"Lawrence, it's okay—"

The ringing in Lawrence's ears muted his father's demands. Eyes narrowed their scopes on the old man. Riding the adrenaline high, Lawrence passed a point of no return, and he knew it.

Jacob bolted up from his seat. Fists clenched at his sides until one threw the chair to slam a wall. His nostrils flared. His mouth twitched to a sneer. Hooded eyes warned Lawrence to back down, but those threats didn't meet with his son eye-to-eye anymore. Sagging lips shaped words Lawrence wouldn't hear, then twisted up under a bare-knuckled fist.

"Jacob!" Margaret's cries pierced the ringing in Lawrence's ears. She pressed palms to her shocked expression, staring wide-eyed at her husband clinging to the countertop corner just to keep upright.

Father and son locked eyes with one another. Jacob raised a weathered hand to his face and glanced at the blood smeared on callused fingertips. "You fucking punk—"

Lawrence swung again. Then again. Each blow punched out a groan from the old man. Energized by years of beatings, Lawrence didn't stop. He couldn't. The strength to fight back was beaten out of Jacob, now slouched up against the lower cabinets after the blows knocked him to the tile floor. Margaret's hysteric cries echoed every hit. She was paralyzed in the corner, wincing at crack after crack. Blood sprinkled tile floors. The cabinet drawers. Countertops. When sprinkles became splatters, she regained her grasp on reality.

"Stop it! stop it!"

She pulled Lawrence by his shirt, popping seams and mangling the collar's form. Lawrence's burning muscles barely shrugged her off. His throat was dry laboring for air. His back ached. Wrists were stiff and knuckles throbbed. His legs were stuck bent at the knees, still feeling hard tile pressed against his knees.

"Get out!" she shoved Lawrence off his father. The boy stumbled into the corner and rattled the backdoor. Damp streams caught Margaret's loose hair. Her strands curved and curled on her glistening red cheeks, twisted and hectic like the look on her face. Margaret's lips quivered gawking at her husband, then eyes trailed over to her son. Awaiting praise or punishment, Lawrence wasn't entirely sure. She came at him. The rag in her hand went flying, whipping at Lawrence as she screamed, "Get out! Get out! Get out!"

Shaking legs struggled to get him standing. Even once they did, feet twisted at the second step of the back porch. He tumbled down the short flight and floundered on the ground as the back door slammed shut behind him. The lock turned and his mother's shadow flashed across the curtain. Rough, cold cement chilled his soles. Knees shook under his weight. He gaped at the kitchen window, waiting for his mother to appear again and quickly make things right because after all those years of beatings, she should have had enough by now. They could move on. Leave that monster behind and start anew with the great news he was waiting to tell her at the right moment.

Cold concrete had numbed soft foot pads by the time he realized she wasn't coming back. Legs eventually found their strength. His head cleared at the end of a dirt lawn where old roots tore up the sidewalk. He took one look back at his home and knew he would never return. Gravel embedded in his heels but still he kept going, venturing across vacant lots, empty shells of homes and shops picked clean by scavengers long ago, to one place he knew of that was better than home.

Lawrence plucked up the collar of his shirt and covered his mouth and nose before venturing into the bones of the home he wished were his. Ash hung thick in the air. Little flakes sparkled in moonlight peeking through the sunken roof. The fire was put out days ago but still choked his lungs. "Eve?" he called from the foot of the stairs. Feet depressed a bed of ash under his first step. Scorched planks croaked under his weight and the brittle banister crumbled at his touch. One door remained solid upon its hinges at the top of the stairs. It was once white like the rest of the home's trim, now soot powdered its edges and clouded the panels. Flickering light peeked from the cracks. He turned the knob, catching charcoal dust that hadn't been wiped away by the dainty fingers that opened it before him.

She sat bedside on the floor, in the company of a lantern and a knitted two-headed bear with a singed leg.

"Evelyn?"

Teary eyes grew wide on the lanky boy lurching in the doorway. "Lawrence," Eve jumped up and got a better look at him. Blood-stained his shirt. Black dust coated the bottoms of bare feet and the cuffs of his pants. Reddish brown splotches painted bruised knuckles, seeping into the cracks of broken skin. "What happened?"

Eve brought Lawrence to her bed without any resistance from him. She sat him down and crossed her room to a blackened wall. Floral paper curled around the hole in its center. Disintegrated beams left jagged stumps behind as if to frame the void that was once her parents' room on the other side. She returned to him, a rag and tinted glass bottle in hand. He winced at the lightest touch. Tender bruises throbbed. Alcohol seeped into his stiff joints like liquid knives poking his delicate flesh, gouging deeper to dredge up the source of his pain and play it on repeat in his head.

"She just kept screaming at me to get out." Eve's delicate hand paused when he spoke. Lantern light flickered in Lawrence's dull, down-turned gaze. She stroked the back of his hands that hadn't been bruised. "And he was…"

"Did he hurt you again?"

"No." Lawrence slowly shook his head. "He hit her. I hit him once, and he went down. Then I couldn't stop.'

Eve pulled Lawrence into a tight hug. His head rested against her stomach, buried in the folds of her oversized sweater. Light fingers combed through his hair and coaxed his eyes to rest. His arms loosely wrapped around her, but sore hands refused to conform to the curve of her back. Sweet perfume flooded him with warm memories buried under ash and charcoal wood.

"Let's run away together," Lawrence's voice fought to break through her comforting pullover. Eve moved next to him on the bed, doughy eyes puffy and glistening red from endless tears. "I signed up to join the rangers. They accepted me," he said. "I'll start training next week. We can make our own home. You can open your own dress shop, and you'll have a girlfriend. Maybe I'll find somebody too and we can all live together and be our own family. We'll all be happy."

Eve's lips quivered. She sniffled, wiping away the oncoming waterfall. Lawrence caught her and rocked away the sobs while promising her, "you'll be happy again."

—

"Popular today aren't you?"

I looked at the stranger that suddenly appeared next to me. He wasn't a guard or another inmate. Honestly, I wasn't sure he was even an even adult with the way he wore a blazer a couple sizes too big for him and the hastily knotted tie. Pock marks dotted his sunken cheeks that inflated when he flashed me an awkward smile.

"I'm next with you after them, by the way," he said.

"Who are you?" I asked but my tone sounded more demanding once it left my mouth.

"You ought to talk to them." I thought I was hallucinating the rich scent of coffee, but the kid raised his hand along with a steaming cup as he pointed to the visiting room on the other side of the scratched viewing window.

That's what freedom smelled like. A hot cup of coffee. It could be the shittiest cup of coffee brewed from yesterday's grounds, but I still wanted it. Needed it. I think I had forgotten what coffee tasted like trapped in a jail for three years in the heart of a country I once served. Maybe it wasn't the coffee itself I actually wanted. Maybe it was the memories from when I was free the smell triggered—the Mojave morning sky flooding our penthouse in delicate blue. Vincent, bringing the smell of fresh grounds with him, as he came back to bed to wake me. The gentle brush of the back of his finger against the grain of my cheek stubble. He'd stretch a leg between mine, then came his whole body to tell me he was nude without saying it—

I shook that memory out of my head, stumbling over my words to the beat of blinks attempting to put its sensations away for a more appropriate time. "Wh-why are you here to see me?"

The kid in the monkey-suit looked at me with this stupid kind of look that made me wonder if he'd ever seen himself in a mirror. "Don't worry about that," he said, probably thinking it was a clever remark as he turned away. He headed for the guard's door at the end of the hallway, stopping once he reached the fortify steel frame to look back at me and holler, "name's Anderson, by the way."

The security light over the door buzzed and he pushed through. Freedom winked at me again. The light from the prison's entrance was so blindingly bright it burned rings into my retinas. But I let it. Welcomed it, even. I'd rather go blind from sunlight than the artificial light from the tubes overhead. The door closed. Daylight vanished as quickly as it came. Anderson's head popped into the guard's viewing port seconds later, but temporarily blinded as I was, I didn't notice until I saw him staring back at me, motioning for me to move along.

He definitely thought he was the clever, suave type when actually he was more like a pompous ass. If I wasn't an incarcerated withered husk of a man, I might have had words with him about that. Might've actually felt something real too, instead of just knowing I was supposed to. Coffee wasn't allowed for prisoners. Neither was daylight unless it was through the bars of a squat window in a wall or in glimpses such as the security door. Not even feeling anything was allowed here.

Moldy must assaulted my nose first when I meandered into the visiting room. The monotonous yellow walls assaulted my eyes next. The ceiling, the floors, the lights—those were all the same shade of a dull yellow that didn't exist in nature and seemed to have a supernatural ability to instill a volatile unease among the prisoners. Long overhead tubes washed it all in fluorescent buzzing white. Guards clung to the perimeter, taking their task of watching three rows of tables and chairs too seriously. Two tables were already taken by conversations kept hushed. The third was occupied by an elderly couple I knew but hadn't seen in years. They were bundled up in warm clothes, yet they still shivered. Wrinkled and spotted hands clasped each other on the cold tabletop—I don't remember them ever being so affectionate. The lines on their faces were canyons now. Crows' feet winked from the corners of their eyes and crept down their saggy jowls. Laugh lines traced slumped cheeks but I don't know how they'd ever earn those since there was no laughter way back when I knew them better.

The old woman—mom, as I used to call her—still showed some of her brown streaks in a thinning head of silver hair. The old man didn't seem to fare much better than her. I felt a strange sense of enjoyment knowing that, but I couldn't help and wonder how he got the long thick scar on the right side of his head. The teeth he was missing, though, that was me.

Margaret jumped out of her chair, slack jawed as she gawked up at me. Her arms flung open wide, inviting me for a hug like she used to do when I barely came to her waist. Thankfully a guard shut that down as he bellowed out, "no touching."

I don't think I could keep myself together if she touched me. The chair I pulled out screeched against the linoleum floor. I plopped down heavily with an annoyed sigh for good measure. I wasn't really sure why I was here either. Guards didn't tell me who was visiting and you don't ask out because they'll remind you how far beneath their polished black shoes you are.

"What are you doing here?"

"We came to see you!" Margaret said. "A nice fellow dropped by. Government man who told us you were here—We were shocked, but we're just happy to see you."

I was listening to her but not looking at her. My glare was sharpened on the frail old man avoiding my eyes. His smile waned realizing I wasn't going to. Good. It was his turn be terrorized. "Last we heard about you was from Eve and that was two years ago—Didn't even know there was a trial. We would have come to that!"

"Margaret," Jacob finally spoke. The loud and strong-willed voice I used to flinch at was just a whisper now. Wispy, like his body had become. "Let's not get into that…" He braved my frown, meeting my eyes for a brief second. "We wanted to see you."

"Wanted to see me?" I scoffed. Almost chuckled even. It wasn't funny-funny. The assertion he would ever want to see me was more an absurd kind of statement. I folded my arms that had grown dense from when my father last watched them beat the shit out of him. It was fake macho-shit. I got good at mimicking that stuff when I became a ranger. Learned how to wield it like my height just to intimidate others as needed, but I never enjoyed it. Though, I liked making him squirm. "Last time I saw you, I beat you within an inch of your life," I reminded him, then I looked to my mom in case she forgot too, "you kicked me out for standing up to him. There's a reason you only hear about me from Eve."

They shared a look between them that briefly turned the old couple into a pair of strangers. I thought it might be shame, that look. Maybe it was and I didn't want to believe it. I couldn't believe it. How could she kick me out? How could my own mom abandon me for standing up to asshole who beat her? Who beat me starting at nine?

"I… I can never take back what I did to you and your mother. No apologizing could ever right my wrong—"

"It wasn't entirely Jacob's fault," Margaret added.

"But it still happened," Jacob said. Thoe words didn't really register in my ears. I think my brain had to do overtime figuring out if he actually said them. "I destroyed our family."

"The tumor destroyed our family—"

"Oh, so a tumor made you a violent asshole?" I butted in, raising my voice like he used to.

Jacob hesitated to look up at me. "Yes, b-but it's not an excuse."

Margaret set her other hand atop Jacob's and squeezed. "We found out about it after… After I kicked you out. Your father underwent an experimental treatment to get rid of the brain tumor. The doctor said these things cause behavior changes and mood swings and can—"

That's real fucking rich. I snuffed the angry-chuckle twitching my gut. "And what do you want me to do? Get over it?"

"Lawrence, please," Margaret reached across the table to me. I retracted my arms. She had her chance nineteen years ago. "We tried to talk to you. We sent letters. Gifts—Did Evie give you the letters?"

"I want to be a better father while I still can—"

"I got tattoos to cover up the scars you gave me," I announced. The weight of those words I only ever shared with Vincent cracked my voice. I wasn't going to stay and listen to this bullshit. Apologies are just words and words are cheaper than dirt. Apologies only exist to make the apologizer feel better about their shit-bag nature. "That's all this would ever be. Just covering it up."

I stood up, sending the chair scraping against the floor. I was thinking about lunging across the table at that point, grabbing Jacob and killing him like I wanted to as a younger man. But I learned to get the control he didn't have. Also didn't matter how big I got since being tossed out with the trash at seventeen, I couldn't take on the four guards in the room. Hurting to take a breath with bruised ribs and a swollen face wasn't worth it. Time was beating him to death anyway.

I don't remember storming out of the visiting room, just that I was suddenly back in the hallway, sucking in deep breaths and trying not to let the tunnel vision take over as I paced the empty corridor.

"That probably could have gone better for them."

Anderson's voice startled me. He flinched when I looked at him, halting his path to me as I halted my paces. Maybe I was here longer than I thought. The visiting room was empty on the other side of the gouged glass.

"Maybe you too…" he gave me a smile that teetered between condescension and awkwardness. "Let me be the sunshine in your day, Mr. Garrett," Anderson said, his smile seemingly turning genuine as he gestured for me to follow him. We walked a couple steps down the long hall with him ahead of me and that's when I noticed he was holding a plain envelope. Anderson pushed through one of many doors lining the hallway. I assumed they were all private meeting rooms—I had been in at least three of them over the course of my sentence—cramped and devoid of maintenance. There wasn't one lick of surface in this shithole that didn't serve to remind the inmates they were worthless.

The door clicked shut as I looked at my lifeless reflection in the two-way mirror. I thought I saw a silhouette on the other side before Anderson came over, picking up the slack of the pants a couple sizes too big for him as he took a seat. He reached across the table, giving me a hand to shake for formality. I must've looked at his soft palm like a backwater wastelander. I guess that was another thing you forget in a place like this.

"Nice to finally meet you. I'm taking over your case—No applause necessary." We shook hands like decent folk, but after he said that I was beginning to revisit thoughts on having words with him about his cheeky attitude.

"My case ended with a life sentence. What's there to take over?"

"Been following the news?" Anderson opened the large envelope he had kept tucked under his arm. He set four newspaper clippings in front on the table in a neat fashion. Four headlines stared back at. Four separate assassinations of state senators and congressmen. There was only one this year. The others happened last year, and aside from their political affiliation in common, was the that the killer was never found.

I don't think I actually cared about any of them when the news eventually trickled into the prison. I still kind of don't, beyond a mild curiosity. Being trapped in here and whatnot gives you different priorities. I looked up to Anderson, waiting for the reason I was here, looking at headlines.

"About a year ago some posters started popping up around the republic, even in the boonies. Manifestos too and, whew, those were quite a read. Talk about long-winded," he chuckled and fanned the stiff button down-shirt that might have been the only thing properly sized for him. "Anyway, the whole gist is for the people to rise up and take their blindfolds off because the New California Republic is lying to them. The posters and manifestos made wild claims about bribes, extortion, mismanagement of resources, that the war in the Mojave was a farce, and called for resignations and imprisonment of those involved by name. And if that didn't happen, well, four of those names are dead now, as you can see. And then last week this bombshell dropped."

He set another clipping down—the whole front page, actually. Black, bold typesetting burned their words in my eyes. I think my heart fluttered being confronted with the memories of the war the titled evoked. The Mojave Campaign: Lies, Bribes, and Blood. It was dated from last week. I looked up at Anderson. My mouth was open but I didn't say anything immediately. I blinked like an idiot before finally choosing my words carefully. "What organization did you say you were from?"

"Bureau of Internal Affairs."

"Never heard of you."

"I'm not surprised since you jolly bunch can barely manage a working radio in here. We're new," Anderson said. "Established last year by President Carter—you do know there's a new president, right? Anyway, some things just weren't adding up about the war. Can't go into too much detail, being classified and all that jazz. I can tell you that everything the manifestos and propaganda posters claimed was just verified by a leak and plastered all over the republic for everyone to see."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"Well, Mr. Garrett, I think you have something to do with this."

I leaned back in his chair, arms folding tightly against his chest. Anticipation tingled in my limbs like static. I think something in me knew what this was about but wouldn't let my conscious mind know out of a sense of self-preservation. I was in here for treason, after all—well, according the "judicial" system. The same system that turned a blind eye to the real reason I did what I did. "Are you offering me something or accusing me of something?"

"Oh, I'm giving you a really juicy steak. See, I think you can help us. And I think you don't want to be locked in here either."

"What's the catch?"

"You're smart," Anderson smirked. He slouched in the metal chair and crossed his arms. I briefly pondered if he was mocking me. "The catch is you're free as long as you give us your cooperation and loyalty. You just have to say the magic words and you're a free man right now, and still free when this clears up. I already made living arrangements with someone you know: Linda McBeale."

Linda.

I don't think I've heard anyone actually say her name out loud before. But it struck me, like when I heard my life sentence being delivered. Where that verdict announced in the closed courtroom with just the judge, my representative, and the government representative on the opposing side instilled me with a kind of a terror I never really felt on a battlefield or in the empty wilds of the Mojave, her name… Hearing her name, it felt like I was back home, in the penthouse with Vincent, sharing our body heat under the covers while coffee was brewing in the kitchen, content knowing I had everything I needed. It felt like security.

Walking out the doors of the prison, I had the suspicion this was all a joke. The guards would come running after me any minute, beat me back into submission and drag me to a solitary cell all while mocking me for daring to let a bit of hope spark.

None of that happened.

I breathed in fresh air. Saw the sky without wire mesh or bars obscuring my view—Sort of. Long towers had gathered in the heart of the Boneyard over the decades I avoided coming back. I remember when they were just stubs. Now, ticking gears drug workers up the sides of the buildings in rickety lifts to keep on welding new skin to their bones. Long necked cranes contributed to the endeavor, hefting around recycled steel and other supplies far above the streets.

"Excuse the ride," Anderson said. Waiting curbside and held together by hope, rope, and brittle nails was a rickety buggy pulled by a ghoul-patched horse. Anderson's lip curled once we came into smelling-range of it. "We're not very high tech yet."

The buggy pulled us towards into dense city horizon. Distant echoes of work easily tuned out inside the prison amplified. Hammers pounded in a rhythm too familiar. War drums. I blinked with every strike, but it wasn't enough to keep the sound from crawling under my skin. The blows landed deep, not just in my ears but in my stomach, coiling my insides tighter with each thump. My pulse tried to match the beat, too fast, too erratic—too much

Then the whistles screamed. I flinched hard, nails digging into the slick wax of the bench, barely keeping myself steady as the buggy jerked forward. Piston fire cracked like distant rifle shots. Engines roared—on four wheels, three wheels, two—zipping past, weaving into the chaos of the inner city. Radios from passing cars barked over each other, frequencies clashing in a garbled mess of static and voices. Delivery trucks coughed up thick exhaust, then jolted forward, joining the chorus of honks, beeps, and squealing rubber. Drivers translated the machine noise into curses that peeled through the streets.

Another whistle wailed. The buggy jolted to a stop, and I almost shot up from my seat. Through the black smoke and shifting mass of vehicles, the sidewalks heaved with bodies spilling onto the streets. A blur of colors, faces, eyes—too many eyes. Staring back at me. Their voices crashed like thunder in my skull, scheming in Latin how they wanted to kill me, yet their mouths never moved.

Not now. I couldn't deal with this right now. I pressed my hands to my ears, squishing the sides of my skull as I hunched over just to keep the world out.

It's not real. It's not real.

I heard Vincent's voice in my head, reciting those words he used to calm me when I woke in the dead of night, soaked in sweat and terror. I labored to just imagine his face—the way his hair glowed like a halo with the sun behind him. His boyish smile that wrinkled his eyes—I dearly missed those eyes. The mismatched pupils and the scar that caused their uneven look gave him a mesmerizing gaze. Charming or threatening, whatever he chose in the moment. His eyes softened just for me. Soft like his touch, his hands melding to my cheeks as he said it's not real. Only he could ever make me feel so at ease.

I unlatched my hands clamping my hair. I unfolded my body about the time the skyline dwindled far behind us. Patchwork squares of green fields took over the horizon. Those fields used to be ruins when I was a kid. Scrapheaps of collapsed buildings I got my first job picking through. My hands were shredded after the first day. With that day's pay though, I bought gloves. Then I made something to pad my knees. I powered through it to put money away. I wanted to leave home as soon as I had enough. I was smart to have to Eve hold onto it. Her family wasn't poor like me, so her parents wouldn't steal it.

We used that chunk of change to get settled in a home near the NCRA base, not long before I was shipped off to the Mojave.

"I already briefed Linda about the situation," Anderson interrupted my thoughts.

I rubbed my forehead but it wouldn't sooth the headache pounded into my brain by the tension. "How did she get involved in this?"

"She's nice and makes some good cookies."

I shot Anderson a look. My patience was wearing thin with him, but I knew I ought to be careful. He might've been annoying to look at but he also got me out of prison. He reached to the handles in the buggy's frame and braced for the oncoming craters. "Linda was contacted in the bureau's early days as a consultant. She has experience in…" Anderson shrugged as his hand flip-flopped around the real answer. "Things—and retirement is boring. Anyway, I approached her about the radical propaganda for a threat assessment and she said to take it seriously. So, here we are."

"There's a lot of important information left out of that."

"You might think this leak soaking all the newspapers and radio stations would be helpful to my original investigation, but it's actually muddied things up a bit." He squinted at the blurring field. Stopped in the middle of neat verdant rows were tan straw hats that popped up every so often. "We have effectively lost control of the investigation and being my first real important case, I'm screwed. Yep. Screwed."

The old road led to an overpass. It was the only part of the highway that stood for about a mile in both directions. Chunks of concrete flesh clung to rusted bones poking out, desperate to keep some semblance of better times. Fallen slabs remained where they landed centuries ago, leading on in a crooked line fencing off the fields' ends from the other side where a town was situated. It was like an arch at a town's beginning that proudly wore its name and welcomed newcomers. This one was none of that. There was no name. Not even graffiti. Just one lonely and rust eaten highway sign clapping against the fossil's pitted, cracking skin like it was begging for the number 605 to be remembered.

Scrap lean-tos haphazardly slapped together greeted any roaming in the overpass's shade. Makeshift stands along the street continued as we rolled along, hawking salvaged trinkets and old-world baubles plucked out of the ruins. Farmers auctioned caged geckos and chickens; extra wings or legs caught a dollar more—two heads meant a fatter hen and those were two dollars on top the regular rate. Cooks turned grilling skewers and proudly fondled clanking ice cubes chilling glass bottles like a drunk flirt at last call. Brokers shilling extra produce barked over each other for their next customer. Bodegas, chop-shops, general supply stores, venues for bars and barely legal entertainment occupied patched structures that had been there longer than any generation of their workers.

It reminded me of Vegas, and for too short of a second, I thought I was really there. A dull ache struck my chest realizing I wasn't. I was hundreds of miles and three years apart from Vincent.

The buggy turned down a side street and continued into a neighborhood of modest houses. We stopped at one a couple minutes later. Brittle ivy crawled up its stucco walls. A broken fence guarded the weed patches out front. Hedges grew over the perimeter, keeping the little lot private. Pots of all sizes and shapes vibrant succulents called home cluttered the porch around a swing bench gently croaking on corroded hinges to the tune of a lazy Thursday. Following Anderson, my legs felt heavy but my body was lighter than air. Watching him knocking on the screen door sent anxious vibrations through me.

"Coming!" Was that her? Was that Linda's voice? There was a hint of familiarity in it, but had an airy quality I didn't recall even though we spent years together in the wasteland. Bare feet tapped wood floors from inside. I hated the feeling bubbling up from my stomach. Her silhouette came into focus behind cream colored and rust spackled grates. The door squealed open. I thought my legs might collapse under me.

"Good afternoon, Ms. McBeale," Anderson said first. Ie was too busy gawking at the woman. Six years and she was unrecognizable. Would I recognize Vincent by now? "Are you making…" Anderson craned his head up and peeked inside. "Cookies?"

"I am indeed baking cookies," she waved us inside. "Come on in."

Sugary warmth flooded the cozy house. Antiques decorated nearly every surface—on top doilies—A lot of doilies. White doilies. Pink doilies. Multicolored and increasingly complex doilies. And then there was the owner at the center of it all wearing what could have very well been made from doilies. Sparse lines creased around her caramel brown eyes and the glossy lips beaming at me. Long brunette hair draped bare shoulders. Their licking ends turned black against her white sundress. We were the same height and while she always had a slender frame, she seemed smaller than I recalled. Her… aura, though, the feeling another person radiates just being in their presence. That was different. She was more radiant, warm, wise even. These traits peeked through sometimes, back when she went by a different name. She was finally who she wanted to be, and that's what her aura felt like.

"You're staring—Is my lipstick smudged?"

"What? No." I shook his head. "I'm sorry, I just… I barely recognized you, Linda."

She laughed. "That's the point."

"I mean that in a good way," I attempted to wave off my gaff, and chuckled due to my own nervous behavior. "You're stunning."

"I know you do." Linda smiled, stretching open her arms. I didn't hesitate her invitation for a hug. Maybe she knew I needed it. "Now get comfortable. My home is your home."

She walked me to kitchen a couple paces away. The cooking area was a snug corner made up of blue pastel countertops warmed by a street-facing window. Various appliances, matching the countertops color, were positioned strategically on the tiles. They were sleek. New and shiny, not some crap refurbished from junk plucked out the never shrinking garbage heaps left by the old-world. I picked up one, a lightweight thing like a little blue box with two slits on top and a tab that could be pushed down or up. It would rattle the internal mechanisms a bit when I turned it about to study it from every angle, but I couldn't quite place its function. The device was light, unfamiliar, but familiar too—something I'd gutted a hundred times before without knowing its real purpose.

The stovetop oven caught my attention next. Stone grates to set pots and things on were wonderfully clean, and the finished metal surface underneath startled me with my own reflection. Not like I hadn't seen a stover or oven before, just nothing so fancy outside of Vincent's and I's suite. Maybe I was just easily amused being trapped in that god-awful prison for three years, but the fridge was quite a marvel too. We had something like it in the Lucky 38, preserved like everything else in that time-capsule, but Linda couldn't have looted this machinery from anywhere else. Opening one of its two doors kissed my face with frost. I closed that needing to know what other one offered, and I don't think we ever stocked our fridge so full in the suite—

The tap on my shoulder brought me back into reality. Must have forgotten my manners too… Linda smiled at me patiently though and I let her guide me to the table in the other half of the kitchen. "Where did you find these?" I couldn't help but ask.

"Find what?"

"The fridge, the oven, that thing over there—"

"At the store that sells them."

"You doing alright, caveman?" Anderson asked. He made himself comfortable at the round table, his back to a second window. A plate of cookies lay defenseless in front of him. I sat down before making an even bigger dunce of myself. "I gotta lay down some ground rules," Anderson announced as he snatched his first cookie from the plate. I was tempted to but felt self-conscious after invading Linda's kitchen. Thankfully, he swallowed before continuing, "I hope you're a homebody, Mr. Garrett, because this is your square-footage of freedom."

"So, I'm on house arrest."

"For now. We gotta build a repertoire, y'know? I don't want to hear 'I told you so' from my boss." Anderson paused briefly for another bite. "Don't worry though, you'll have plenty to do." He pushed a thick envelope across the table. "All of that is the case you're helping me with. Work your magic."

The rest of the conversation turned casual, and I let it be just between Linda and Anderson. I was too curious about what was in the envelope. Of course Anderson didn't organize them so that was my first task, occupying me until he left with a generous gift of sugar cookies at Linda's behest. Organizing physical things was also organizing the intangible stuff. Putting the documents in neat stacks on the living room coffee table was also all I could do to get any control back over my life. But with that complete and nothing left to occupy my naturally brooding mind, I just stared at the piles. I noted the sudden silence and looked up to find Linda on her way to join me in the living room.

"I thought I knew what I was going to do the moment I got out. Kept a list in my head, but now…" I sighed and let my tense body sink into the sofa. Things always hurt easing the tension in my joints and muscles.

The floral cushion next to me depressed. Linda's aura radiated patience. She was always like that though, even when she tried to hide it as a mud spackled, everyman-ranger. Now, it was unbridled as it ought to be, and soothing to bask in. I finally continued, "I saw my parents today for the first time in eighteen years."

Linda patted my knee. "I'm gonna get the whiskey."

Glass clinked in the kitchen. A cupboard opened then quietly shut. Liquid splashed ice rocks and she reappeared shortly next to me on the sofa, two glasses in hand and the crystal bottle on the coffee table should it be needed. I savored the glass's chill. My tongue had forgotten the true taste but by how I was already salivating for the whiskey, my tongue never forgot how much I liked it. I downed it one gulp.

"That's better," I sighed in relief this time. What I did forget was how alcohol had the power to sanitize the literal and metaphorical taste left in my mouth. A warm buzz settled in. The dull ache in my joints began to subside. Muscles went limp. "My mother and father showed up at the detention center. Told me they wanted to make amends because a tumor in Jacob's head is what made him abuse me and my mother for nine years."

"Oh gosh…" Linda shoulders slumped and gracile collarbones revealed themselves. "What did you say?"

"I made it clear that was never happening, and… I'm wonderin' if I was an asshole."

"Well," she started with a tactful tone. I think that's why whenever there was a personal problem, people went to Ranger McBeale first, even before their actual CO. She knew when to be delicate, when to be firm but even that firmness had a grace that never made anyone feel bad about themselves, and more importantly, she always told the truth. "As a parent, I know how difficult it is to not have your children in your life so, you already know what I'd want. However, where you are coming from is completely justified. That kind of hurt doesn't go away."

"I thought so too, but…" I didn't think the sofa could absorb anymore of my weight but it did. "He seemed sincere. It's like I saw my dad again before he turned into a monster. He wasn't always like that. Maybe he isn't anymore."

"That could be true, but what you need is more important. Maybe that is reconnecting or never seeing him again."

I pondered that for a minute. I don't know if I ever could look Jacob again and not see someone who put bruises on my skin or words in my head that made me ashamed of things no one every should carry shame about. "Your kids haven't talked to you?"

"No." Linda sipped her whiskey. "They don't visit. Or write. That's a very different situation than yours."

"What about Mary?"

"I don't bother her."

"Well, for what it's worth, this was the best mom talk I've had in a long time."

Linda unfolded legs from under her. She squeezed my hand and smiled but it never really hid the pain the subject brought up. "Let me show you around. I never thought I'd actually get to put the second room to use."

She led me through a short hallway between the living room and kitchen where four doors stood. Two were bedrooms and one was a bathroom. The larger room was Linda's of course and the smaller one was a guest bedroom. Stealing a peek inside what would be my room, I wasn't sure the wallpaper was a choice made in good-faith. Afternoon poured in through the only window which faced a narrow alley dividing property lines. Vintage photos framed on the wall reflected the warm light back like the feeling those familiar faces long gone stirred in me. The bed sat in the center of the room, outfitted with an elegantly webbed throw that matched the doilies on the nightstands. The final door was a glass one that let in the light of her sun-warmed patch of dirt and dead weeds out back.

"I also host a book club once a week—" Was Linda even a reader? I didn't recall ever seeing her read anything other than a notebook or reports. The recessed shelves in the hallway said it didn't matter 'cause they were stocked with books whose spines had creases and others awaiting their turn. "I've been working on the home since Mary and I separated, and… Honestly, I think it's the only thing that keeps me sane."

I blinked away the black sand trickling in my eyes. Linda was already in the kitchen when my sight finally cleared. I caught up with her, hoping I would make it to a chair before she noticed something off. What would I say anyway? There wasn't a word for whatever this was making me lightheaded just looking at my own hands. I looked at Linda across from me at the table. She was saying words I didn't understand because the feeling was coming back and clogging my ears. I had known Linda, for technically four years, mostly through letters exchanged sparsely over the six years since she retired. But before that she was Robert. I knew that person for my entire career, and I saw half of him here. I didn't know what to expect meeting Linda for the first time, just that things would be a little different.

This whole other person, someone I didn't know but seemed oddly familiar like déjà vu… I felt it being downtown. Passing the fields that replaced scrap heaps. Seeing all these incredibly different things. Seeing my parents and the wrinkles creased into their skin. I wondered if my hands looked different three years ago.

Linda's fingers curled around my forearm. Her nails were deliberately manicured. A healthy pink with naturally white tips. I looked up to Linda as she asked, "are you alright?"

"I'm sorry," I shook my head. I didn't know everything about Linda like I assumed, I would like to. "I—I had a hard time when we got downtown from…" Folding my arms on the table steadied me. "I didn't really know where I was, if that makes sense."

"Things are very different than when you were last here. I know, I'm different. You're different. The whole world feels like it's going faster and faster and you can't keep up." Linda gave me smile but I wasn't entirely reassured. "Take it easy for minute and breath. It's ok to do that sometimes."

"Considering how and why I'm here—"

"Never mind that today," Linda waved her hand, swiping away any ideas I had of diving right into something to give me a purpose. "Just relax. Go outside, listen to the birds and the wind for once knowing nobody has their crosshairs set on you."

I swallowed the knot tangling in my throat. "I can't thank you enough for doing this."

"You've been a good friend to me. I was not going to leave you behind."

I hung my head when the water in my eyes started to gather. Compliments were always an awkward affair for me, giving or receiving. I learned to take the basic ones well—the stuff about being handsome or dressed well. Real compliments like Linda's were harder to take. I felt like a liar when I got them. Somehow, I tricked her into thinking that, I just don't remember when or how.

"Can I ask for something, if you have any?" I asked.

"Of course."

"Do you have coffee?"

Linda smiled, "I do." She stood up, moving to the counters, making noise among the cupboards and machinery.

My back was to her, and hers to me. I couldn't keep tears back no matter how tight I ground my teeth or clenched my fists and one strolled down the curves of my cheek. This wasn't about Linda, or even what she said. The latest awful thought to invade my brain that strangled the lone tear out of me was because three years have passed since I even spoke to Vincent. Would he be so different?

Suddenly a cup of hot coffee was in front of me. I breathed deeply. The rich aroma replaced the coldness that had crept in my body, reminded me of better memories that gave me just a fraction of an ounce of hope that Vincent still thought about me—That he didn't hate me. "I—" I paused to untangle thoughts jumbled between past and present. "I don't know you did since I last saw you, but it's working for you."

Linda smiled. Bashful eyes fell to her steamy cup. "A lot of blood, sweat, and tears." She looked up at me, eyes sparkling in a flattered kind of way I'd only ever seen on women. "Thank you."

And there went my soul again. I briefly imagined what Vincent might look like three years older. "I hope it works for Vincent, too."

"Hope what works?"

"There's a Followers mission in New Vegas, and I asked a favor from the director," I said, working through the naked vulnerability I was feeling. "She told me she found someone that could help Vincent become a man, but I have no idea if it worked or anything."

"Was that before you left?"

"Yes."

"Why did you leave?" She asked gently, head tilting at the emphasis of the question. "Y'know, I never got a follow up letter from you…"

My exhaling breath deflated my entire body. "I loved him—Still love him. But…" I blinked before any tears could escape the threshold of my eyes. I was never good at putting into words I felt. Wasn't really taught how. "But I had my duties and what the fuck was I doing? Fallin' in love with someone ten years younger than me while I'm still hungover about a tragically killed lover who I had been with for six years solid. I only knew Vincent for, what? Two months at most? This isn't some stupid romance novel. I had a job to do. I needed to be at Hoover Dam. Defend the republic. The rangers—That was my purpose."

I shielded my shameful face with my hand. There was little that made me cry. Or feel much of anything, anymore. Vincent was one of those things.

"You can have more than one purpose in life."

I quickly swiped a cloth left on the table and dried my damp face. "Not when it conflicts with the first." Linda's warm palm set on my forearm. Her thumb caressed me gently like my mom used to and I had trouble holding back at that point. "He made me feel a way I hadn't in years, and it was real. There was just something about being together that clicked for me. The way I didn't with Marcus, and then it started to scare me. I felt guilty."

"Guilty? Why did being happy make you feel guilty?"

"I still loved Marcus."

She was one of a handful of people who knew about us. I only told those I trusted most, but I never told Linda. She discovered us, and I've been grateful for her understanding since.

"That's something that won't ever go away," Linda shook her head. "I still think about people that have been gone for twenty-three years and I only knew them for a couple days. They leave a mark on you."

I chuckled but I wasn't amused. "Vincent told me something similar." My mind wandered to the other reason I felt guilty. My mouth wanted to say it aloud, but it felt so ridiculous. I first realized this uncomfortable truth one night in the Lucky 38. Vincent didn't mind my occasional habit of waking up in the throes of a night terror. This habit developed a year before Marcus was murdered. It was more infrequent than during my stay with Vincent, but what really bothered me was… Marcus wasn't a mean guy. He wasn't insensitive either. We'd been through thick and thin. We had each other's backs. But… He didn't always get me—I don't even get why I'm made of glass.

Vincent never let me shatter.

I blinked, and came back to the moment. "He'd be twenty-five by now and me… I'm too late."

"Lawrence." Linda leaned closer to me, jostling my arm then squeezing my hand "It's never too late. I promise, it is never too late."

"I promised him I'd come back, but I never imagined this would happen." I shook my head. "He's moved on by now."

He should move on, I think. I failed him while he never let me down in time we were together. And if he did, I wanted only the best for him.

"Honey, you don't know that." Linda's tone demanded I meet her eyes. "Even if you don't get back together, don't you think it's good closure? For the both of you?"

"Maybe. What if he hates me? I'd hate me."

"There's an equal chance he wants to see you, that he misses you, and still feels the mark you left on his heart too."

It didn't really matter, though. I wasn't going anywhere beyond the end of the front yard for a while. I was given a new purpose. A means to redemption and being useful as a ranger ought to be. Maybe one day I'd find that boy again. At least for now I had Vincent in my memories, and could suspend my disbelief when my head was in the right place that he missed me as much I missed him, and we will meet again as the song goes. And if we don't, those memories won't fade for at least a couple more decades.

—

"Joining us live from the Crater Beach Studio is Mr. Edward Lowe, chairman of the Laborers Party, and Mr. Jensen Cooper, representative councilor of the Boneyard—Thanks for joining us gentlemen—"

I turned up the knob of the radio claiming a bare minimum of space on the coffee table's corner and listened to the level-headed host continue.

"Now, Mr. Lowe, I read your party's dissatisfaction with Kimball's administration, but why don't you tell us more about the division the working class is still feeling?"

My butt was numb from sitting on the floor. Sitting on the sofa was too soft and I'd be hunching over, but the carpet was too hard. I was eye-balling the kitchen table, but during the day it was Linda's battle station. The war of which was wielding two crochet needles under a mounted magnifying glass to create the perfect doily.

"Thank you, Mr. Conway. During the Mojave campaign, which was paid for by citizen's taxes, military personnel were largely assigned to protect interest within the republic, and were better armed, supplied, and trained than counterparts in the Mojave. These special interests were brahmin ranches, farmland—"

Jensen Cooper cut in barely hiding his rhetorical tone, "And guarding those assets was a bad idea?"

"Look, guarding our assets makes sense, but using a taxpayer funded institution—"

"They pay taxes—"

"Using a taxpayer funded institution like a private army that ought to be focused on securing the entire republic's future raises a plethora of ethical questions."

I skimmed through a pile of loose papers. Reports detailed the murder of three men and one woman as concisely as their lives were cut short. I wasn't sure of the political situation in the country while in prison, but never imagined something like this would happen. Someone was angry enough to murder the names in these reports, and smart enough to not be found.

"That's a baseless claim—"

"Have you read the leak, Mr. Representative?"

The rap sheets of political careers read as the most honest obituaries because beneath the condolences and handshakes gathered in black to celebrate the idea of one's life, was the truth.

"The leak whose truth is still being investigated? We-we don't know if all of this is even factual let alone released in good faith—I mean are we dealing with Enclave misinformation tactics? Legion infiltration—"

"H-Hold on, Mr. Cooper," the host spoke, "and excuse me for interrupting, but do we have a reasonable doubt as to the origins of this leak?"

"I think it's reasonable to investigate the source and its claims."

The truth was sat in the far pews or standing on the fringe of graves no longer visited and spoken in hushed whispers like gossip. The gossip was the last pages in the reports of each one of these names' careers. Dirty laundry outlined the backroom deals sealed in the fine print of legislature. Lives were traded in capital offices far from the common rabble that was the currency. Brokered like cattle in a market with floors of trampled straw and brahmin shit, then shipped eastbound to the slaughterhouse in the Mojave.

"Look… The documents in the leak reveal why: money. It all comes down to money. Brahmin barons and agricultural lords lobbied our government and essentially paid them to use our military assets like mercenaries—"

"I don't—"

"—A public resource to personally guard them and their private assets. Kimball allowed private interest groups like the Stockmen's Association and the Republican Farmers Committee to pay for legislature, laws, and financial aid that only benefitted them—"

The radio switched off.

"You don't need to be getting worked up about that," Linda said. Her hands cinched the pastel pink sun dress she was wearing to her waist when I looked up to her. "And by you, I mean me. Come and get lunch."

I gathered the papers and organized them so I could return to exactly where I left off at. My muscles ached to be used after sitting for so long. I took to stretching in front of the window I had my back to most of the day, admired the clear sunny day beating down on Linda's patch of warm dirt and dead grass. Realizing it was next for fixing once she was done with the backyard, I began to dread that herculean task. The weeds had years to root in compact soil. The boxwood overgrown and browning. The ivy clinging to walls. The pair of eyes watching from under the shade of a fedora—

I snapped my eyes back to the anomaly. The stranger turned his back, looked to his left, and disappeared beyond browning hedges separating the next property.

"Do you think Anderson has people watching us?" I asked on the march to the kitchen.

Just like a sniper's nest, her doily battle station was packed up and disappeared without a trace. Two plates were set atop large placemat doilies. I was beginning to wonder if the doilies were more of a compulsion than a hobby.

"Oh, absolutely," she said, adding two Nuka Cola bottles to the spread.

Looking at the plate she put together for me, I was tossed into a fancy chair at a high roller's table in a strip restaurant. Diced fruit took up half the plate. Fresh fruit—not the bottom of the barrel pickings with lumpy tumors and rot coloring. There wasn't a speck of mold on the slices of pungent brahmin cheese. Gecko salami? Where can you get salami that wasn't pumped full of so many chemicals that left it vaguely edible one nuclear holocaust and two-centuries later? And it wasn't the stiff like cardboard or tough like jerky to keep you from starving in the wilds. For two years my stomach begged for food that wasn't going to cling like wet cement to his insides, but this….

"I really appreciate you doing all this Linda, but you don't have to pull out all the stops for me. Y'know I'll eat bugs and roadkill."

"We're not stranded in hostile territory waiting for a supply drop." Linda shot me a funny look and chuckled, "And, what are you talking about?"

"Well, all the food you make, and the baking, it's all perfect. I haven't eaten this good since Vegas." I pinched a square of cheese, my tongue already salivating for the savory taste and pulpy texture. "Just strikes me as something that'd cost a pretty penny."

"We're not eating like royalty by no means." Linda hesitated to poke her fork in a chunk of pale-yellow fruit. I noted her expression softened, like she might've realized something. "Things have changed a lot since you were last here. Even more so now the war's over. I'd say, at least here in the Boneyard, life's getting better. Did you see the new farms or development downtown on the way here?"

"Yeah. Things changed a lot…"

My appetite faded away in that moment. I didn't want to appear rude so I kept eating, and also because it just made me feel a bit better. Still, my minded wandered eastward. I wondered how much had changed in Vegas. Wondered if it felt as different as everything did now. And, I wondered how much Vegas changed Vincent.

—

While my room wasn't the suite in the Lucky 38, it was better than the two–by-two broom closet I shared with a snoring menace in prison. Daylight painted wood panel walls a chewy toffee color, kind of like coffee with just the right amount of cream. The rounded edges of over sized doilies hung off the nightstands on either side of the bed. The wood bed frame creaked as I made myself comfortable, but when I looked up I found my reflection looking back in the vanity mirror facing the bed. The curtains fluttered as I studied a reflection that didn't feel quite familiar as it ought to. My face lightened with the gentle day glow wandering inside the otherwise unlit room. It was the perfect kind of light. Not only did it soften the lines on my faces but was enough that I could still read without having an buzzy overhead light on.

Sunlight dappled swirling designs on the top quilt I was sitting on—I briefly considered if the curtains were just giant doilies.

"Bakersfield Mayor Harold Ledecky is set to make appearances later this month to open the second manufactory in his city this year. The mayor has been under fire from his constituents lately for the controversial decision to—"

The radio pulled me out of my procrastination. I inched to my right for the bed stand and lightly turned a dial. The needle glided across numbered ticks, warping the frequencies and smearing noises to an incoherent blur. I had been procrastination on the thick stack of papers bound by three metal rings sat on my lap, not yet parted. Identical stacks popped up all over the republic. Invaded news boxes, appeared on doorsteps, circulated political circles—Nobody knew where they originated from. Which is what I gather my purpose is to be. Finding out who made these because they're also behind the recent assassinations.

This individual stack, however, was different in that it was scavenged from a dumpster. Out of all the possible places Anderson could have acquired one, he chose a dumpster and it would be the stack given to me. He's lucky I was napping when he decided to drop it off. Faded blotches clouded the paper, not unlike a deserved bruise to the arm of the man who graced me with this thing. Page corners maliciously curled in all directions and refused to ever be flat again. Pinching the spine and lifting it up, I checked the duvet for stains underneath. I grimaced catching a whiff of it instead. At least Anderson kindly thought to de-stink it, mostly.

"—discussing the Mojave campaign with me today is military advisor and former general Stewart Perry. Thank you for joining me, Mr. Perry. Why don't get down to the meat of your issue with the military's command because it's really like a perfectly barbecued rack of ribs in my opinion."

A husky chuckle replied to that statement, "thanks for having me—"

The first page stared back at me. It was a blank flyleaf lazily protecting the pages under it. Dulled ink bore through seeping splotches and stiffened the paper. Seeing its title for the first time I held his breath—Against All Tyrants. I don't know why I held my breath. It was just something that happens when an unwanted memory surfaces, but my curiosity kept me grounded enough to keep looking. Another attention grabber hooked me by the nose. At the top of the page was a line written larger that the rest of the print: "These people are lying to you." My heart then started beating faster as I looked to the list of names popularized in newspapers and on the radio. Senators, mayors, congressmen, and others—a lot I didn't even recognize but there were two that stood out to me, not just by starting the list but because I knew these two quite well. They didn't know me, however.

Aaron Kimball; Lee Oliver.

The next pages wasted no space or time. With each turn of the pages my heart beat a little faster like I was reading one of those cheap thriller novels that managed to survive an apocalypse. Lines went on for miles. Tiny flaws in the print levitated or sunk beneath imaginary lines page after page. Text blurred together until one image broke up the monotony. My thumb paused.

"—General Oliver's incompetence during the Mojave campaign is staggering—"

I let myself sink into the pillows piled against the headboard as I studied a hand-copied battle plan employed at Hoover Dam, the second show-down that is. Added lines and arrows represented the NCR's last stand. My stomach tensed again, capturing a shallow gasp in my lungs. The bodies slumped on the barricades—I don't know if they were legion or us. The soldiers in power armor were leading the way. Smoke creeping around their bulky forms dries my eyes. I blinked that away once I regained composure, and exhaled. Nothing was inaccurate in the plans, but that didn't hone down my list of potential suspects.

There was really a list of suspects so much as a list of ranks and type of personal who would be inclined to make something like the dumpster manifesto.

"—this appears to be a complete departure from the man who led the first battle to secure the Dam for the republic, but these leaks aside, go back farther into the first campaign and I can tell you this is just how he is. I, and others I won't name, knew Oliver should have never been promoted to general, and then to read the correspondence in that leak. Well, it just confirms Kimball gave him the job because they were old war buddies."

Bleeding ink drew heavy, winding boundaries of safe territory. The blackened Colorado river divided Nevada and Arizona. Numbered labels marked precise locations in both territories. Some had names like Nelson, Cottonwood Cove, Forlorn Hope, but it was Fortification Hill that was circled and had the adjacent page dedicated entirely to explaining its significance.

"Oliver's plan to retain the dam was sheer brute force against the Legion. Seven years ago, we would not have claimed Hoover Dam without the help of the rangers, and he barely bothered to include them in his strategy at all to keep our hold on the dam. And just reading how they spoke of Hanlon—the bitterness is palpable and woefully unprofessional—It made me think he wanted to show that the NCRA didn't need the rangers, or that he was the superior strategist—It's a rivalry, is what I thought."

I scanned the summary of events, concentrating hard not to break my eyes for even a moment or get sucked into my own recollections of the same events.

"However, it seems the General never stopped to consider the surmounting signs Mr. House was planning his own strategy. Oliver proved himself incompetent as a general, a strategist, and a leader. It cost the republic immensely."

The voices on the radio got the gist of it all, although said in much more professional words. Still, my body-hairs stood on end. Knife tips caressed my spine and trickled down my body like electricity. I had the same feeling when Clint was staring me down in Caesar's tent. The overhead skies were blackened with clouds. Red hues came from distant fires. Burning rubber and flesh tarred my throat. Clint's face was nearly as red as the tent cloth battling wind. Other rangers were looking at me too. I could hear my own heart beating in the silence. They waited for my explanation, but there was no excuse, no lie I could muster to maintain plausible deniability. He knew what I had been hiding.

I broke free from the memory, tossing the stack of papers by its ring bindings. It landed at the foot of the bed.

During that moment in Caesar's tent, I remember thinking to myself two things, two related things; I'm stupid and I should have stayed with Vincent. I should've never left the Lucky 38. Regret consumed me the more I thought about it. It tainted the room, so I threw myself off the bed and out the door to pace the hallway instead. Somehow that would help me regain control, but all I could focus on was the radio mumbling to me things I already knew.

I turned around to make another revolution, this time looking forward and out the back door. The perfect blue sky eased the tension in my shoulders, but not my heart. My bare feet scuffed the dusty cement porch. I was too fixed on searching the sky for the reason why the half-hour just before noon struck me with a hollow, lonely feeling. Whenever we got the rare lazy day, Vincent and I would find the best view in the revolving cocktail lounge we had all to ourselves and just watch the world go by. This was the best time of day for that, better than after dark when every light on the strip was burning. We would just exist in the world as it was, with all its prettiness and ugliness—Us too. We could exist with each other, free of the extra baggage we carried.

My view now was nothing like the artwork carved into the Mojave desert. The backyard was just a heap of dirt sectioned off by sun-bleached wood panels. Not a single cloud marred the sky but it felt so small. Distant mountains of green velvet paled behind a sheer veil. They weren't as tall as the peaks that made Vegas's valley, and frankly I couldn't remember if I'd seen these mountains so green before.

"How's the puzzle going?"

While this time of day snuck up on me like my own flaws, it was Linda's prime time for gardening. I looked at Linda, rubbing away the tension in my neck. Her hat filtered the sunlight spackling her face and warmed her smile, or maybe she was squinting at me. I didn't want to talk about the "puzzle" so I asked something unrelated. "When did downtown start getting built up?"

Linda hummed as she made her way slowly to the slab of concrete, still watering the green sprouts springing up through recently tilled dirt. "About a year ago," she twirled in slow-motion, emptying the rust eaten watering can. "It's a part of a relief initiative," she continued, "Veterans are employed to get back on their feet since they're coming back to no work, and probably no homes. I think it really sold Carter's votes."

"Who?"

Linda set the tin watering can by a support beam then joined me in the shade of the patio. "The president."

"Right…"

"I don't have many fond words about politicians, but Kimball was a general first, and generals are better at leading armies, not nations." She cocked her head and hips. Arms folded and she looked out on her humble domain, but her expression was solemn. "I hate to say it, but losing Hoover Dam was a good thing. Seeing all these kids coming back home traumatized, missing limb and soul, or as ash in little boxes—It was the wake-up call people needed."

"Yeah, the city sure has changed."

The Boneyard, that is. It was the only city I really knew in the whole republic. The scrapping suburbs where I grew up were on the fringes of the heart of the Boneyard. I seldom saw it unless I was with Eve's family—they didn't mind a stray tagging along for family outings. Still, it was nothing like I remembered. The skyline was taller. Shinier. Sprawl claimed the sea of rubble laid in rings from the shockwaves that wasted the city before it centuries ago. Places I used to play in as a kid were fenced off and exhumed by laborers to make way for all the new luxuries. Luxuries people of all classes enjoyed. Even the radio wasn't only news anymore; silky smooth voices narrated thrilling adventures and introduced new music that flooded the airwaves and jukeboxes in diners and threw kids into a dancing fever—or so the radio personalities told me. Theaters had a new definition as well. There were shows with actors on a stage, of course, but now cameras could capture the world in motion. Project moving pictures on blank walls and mesmerize audiences with elegant words printed on the cards between noir scenes.

It wasn't all fun though. There was unrest too. Newspapers and the radio discussed new laws, new regulations, and complicated government things I didn't fully grasp yet. Some people didn't like that kind of bureaucracy, but… Life did seem better since I was last here. People were moving out of shacks and shanty-towns and into real homes with running water and working appliances that didn't explode on a whim. There were still problems though. Maybe any kind of progress would inevitably force problems to surface. I imagined the same was true for Dayglow or Bakersfield or Adytum or any other growing city in California...

I saw a couple signs when Anderson brought me here—signs that designated who could go where and do what; Mutants not served here; Ghouls need not apply; Californians only. Talk on the radio and newspapers were split on this issue. Ghouls had their own neighborhoods and you didn't go there if you were a smooth-skin. Mutants made everyone uncomfortable, so you only found them behind the scenes doing the heavy lifting, literally and figuratively. They could never be citizens though. They weren't even human after all. Even among superior humans there was infighting. Refugees from Legion territory or wastelanders could be spotted from a mile away with their "strange dialects" and "ignorance of the social contract of civilized societies"—I think I felt more in common with the wastelanders than my own countrymen. If you were a Californian—home grown—then it was your wealth that further divided you among your fellow ideal citizens. The upper class didn't mingle with the middle class because they were the help, and the middle class didn't mingle with those below them because they were untouchables doing the dirty work that kept the city running.

It was simpler in the Mojave. You had allies and you had enemies. It didn't matter if your ally was a ghoul or came from a farmstead out in the boondocks and couldn't read. Hell, you'd probably want the supermutant on your side tossing centurions around like rag dolls. The only thing you needed to know was the guy next to you had your back and you had his.

"Did you get to listen to the radio? Read the newspapers while you were in prison?"

Linda pulled me out of my own mind. "Barely—Did you ever get my letters?"

"When you were in Vegas?"

"When I was in prison."

Linda shook her head as slowly as she drew out, "no." Her lips pursed as she squinted at those rolling mountains peeking over neighboring rooftops. "The last letter I sent you was to Forlorn Hope. Never received anything after. Gave me a scare..."

She probably wasn't the only one I scared. Cold fire nipped at my nerves thinking about a boy—a young man a couple hundred miles east. I went quiet again. We were both content to listen to the finches chirping it seems. Whistles jumped between high and low melodies. I pondered if I was a finch, I wouldn't be doing much singing, or maybe all my notes would be low, slow, and broken.

"Did you think I was dead?"

"For a time," Linda confessed. "But then I saw who was on the campaign trail with Hanlon." Light pink nails shimmered when Linda combed her fingers through long brunette tassels. "I sent a letter to Mordecai, and he actually wrote me back. Addressed me as Linda and didn't ask weird questions, so that was nice of him."

"Campaign?"

"Chief Hanlon is now a Shasta senator living in Redding. Mordecai was a part of his election campaign and stayed on to join his staff," Linda explained. "He's got a nice, cushy job to support his lovely family that's not going to get him killed—well, in light of certain events maybe not. Never mind that—he also told me about Clint's little rebellion. Said you made him turn around because he would get in trouble while you stayed to figure out what was going on. And that was the end of that. See why I was scared?"

"He didn't know about the trial?"

"No, and I didn't either until a week before Anderson brought you here."

"There was nothing in the papers?"

Linda's expression darkened with her tone. "I didn't like that either. A decorated ranger veteran being tried for treason against the republic he served? And, not a peep?"

"My mom said a 'government man' told them where I was." I focused on the finches now pecking through damp soil for food so my mind wouldn't slip where I didn't want it to go. "They seemed eager to talk which makes me think if they knew where I was sooner, they would have visited sooner."

"Did you write to Evelyn?"

"Yes. Sent two letters but got nothin' back."

"She would have absolutely written back—I would have been there in a heartbeat if I knew."

"How trustworthy do you think Anderson is?"

"His loyalty is to his organization. He's young, but pragmatic. I asked him to look for any trace of you and he came through. Equally surprised to find out where you've been." Linda shook her head as a sigh marked budding suspicions. "Locked up. No contact. Not a trace you ever arrived..."

Disappeared. That was one of those things rangers ought to be good at. Vanish without a trace—Except I had done it to just about every important person in my life. Not intentionally. I left breadcrumbs because being honest was obviously too difficult for me. No, not even difficult. It was just beyond my comprehension. I didn't know how to say it. I couldn't tell Eve or Vincent what was eating me alive when I didn't even acknowledge it myself.

Not even Clint could wring a lick of truth out of me. He still tried though. Tries in my dreams too cause those days play on repeat. I thrash in the ropes confining me to a chair. The thrashing is instinctive cause I'm choking—choking and convulsing is expected when waterboarded. The sack is ripped off my head. The dry heat feels humid trapped in the crumbling warehouse. My throat burns. I cough, fighting to take in quick breaths before another plunge. Adrenaline makes my limbs shake. My legs want to run but I'm stuck. The fear is instinctive, clouding my head and making it difficult to parse my own thoughts. My eyes adjust to high noon poking through the holes in the roof. The glare obscured their faces but I already knew these men. Used to call these rangers by their names, Walsh, and Guzman.

"Feel like talking yet?"

Guzman yanked back my head by my soaked hair. "I don't know…" His tone mocked me. "He's lookin' parched—"

I spat in his eye with the sweat and water streaming into lips.

"Fuckin' bitch!" Guzman recoiled. His assaulted eye clamped shut. He tugged his duster's sleeve up and wiped the juicy spit wad away. The other pulled the sack over my head and choked the collar. The swelled behind my eyes. I had never been in this kind of situation before. I had never been captured, interrogated, or otherwise not in control of whatever situation I was in. I thought I would die here and become something like the warehouse—just another desiccated carcass withering away in the desert.

"Stop!" Clint's voice rattled the warehouse. He snatched the cloth sack off my head and let me breathe.

"C'mon, man," Guzman whined. The junior ranger huffed with a melodramatic shrug. "He betrayed us." His hand dove for Lawrence's throat. "For pussy—"

I watched Guzman's hand. I had the instinct to jerk with my mouth open wide like a rattler, sink my teeth in like they were fangs. I caught the fleshy mass of his palm between thumb and index finger. Hot blood gushed out. Skin and muscle tore easier than thread. Howls turned to screams. I savored that brief moment of revenge, until Clint choked me to let go. Guzman ripped his hand away.

Clint wasn't choking me to strangle me though, so I spit a chunk of something out of my mouth. Laughed too, and I must have looked insane with blood smeared on my mouth and teeth. I sure felt a little insane. Clint's fingers pressed tighter on my neck. He hovered over me, came closer so all we saw was the hate in each other's eyes. My labored breathing spayed little red specks on his face. His hand tightened on my neck, more than he actually did when this was really happening.

I wake up suffocating. Sweat dampened blankets fly off me as I spring up to a dark room. My panicked breaths echo around me. I might not physically be in the warehouse anymore, but I never left it. That wasn't the only place a piece of me was stuck in. I had bits of myself scattered all over the Mojave Desert. Heavy breaths eventually calmed. The nightmare lingered in my body as I stumbled out of my room and towards the kitchen. I didn't know what to do about those pieces of me. I couldn't just go collecting them, "house-arrest" excluded.

I just avoided thinking about it as usual. Rummaged the fridge instead, like a fat raccoon peruses garbage then laid my bounty out on the table. A plate of cookies warmed in the box I had to open at the last second to avoid the alarm going off. An experimental batch of cornbread muffins with bits of jalapeno mixed in, but the melted cheese was my own addition. Fruit cubes topped with a generous dollop of sugary, whipped brahmin milk was as close to heaven as one could get. And lastly were the assorted leftovers that ought to be eaten before turning, anyway.

"Lawrence?"

I froze hearing Linda's voice. She turned the corner before I could swallow and wipe away the evidence clinging to my unshaven stubble. I probably should have considered I was a guest in this house and Linda might oppose me gorging myself on food that would only make me feel better in the moment. She didn't say anything as she sat across from me, smoothing out the long nightgown then yawned widely before taking a cookie for herself.

"Needed a midnight snack?"

"Yeah," I muttered through the muffin stuffed in my mouth.

She perused the buffet then decided on a cornbread muffin and spread a light coat of butter on its top. "Y'know, these were for the new neighbors that moved in."

I swallowed my greedy bite. "Oh, sorry…" Linda took a bite and hummed delightedly at her creation. "My mom used to make something similar. They weren't as moist as these. Had to wash 'em down with something to drink or choke, and they were a bit overpowering with the jalapenos, too. Coming to think of it, I never actually liked them that much. I think I just liked helping her cook."

Linda chuckled, dabbing a napkin to her lips. I looked at the half-eaten muffin in my hand. It seemed to conjure some nearly forgotten memory with its golden brown and green dotted bread. We were happier then. She didn't have bruises mottling her skin. It was before Jacob grew his alleged tumor. I wondered if she remembered the days I helped her cook more clearly than I did.

"If I get up the courage to talk to my mom, could you find yours to talk to Mary?"

Linda looked up to him with a groaning sigh. She rested her chin in her hand and conceded. "Yeah, I think I could."

I asked her that because I wasn't sure if Linda would give herself permission. They had an anniversary coming up—something Linda was probably hoping I'd forgot about. That sounded like a good enough excuse to me.

The next morning I experienced what could only be described as a food hangover. A cocktail of emotional shame and physical bloat I hopefully learn from. To make matters worse was the epiphany that dawned on me a millisecond after gaining consciousness. I heard my own voice say it, but my mouth was not moving. It was the kind of epiphany that felt obvious in hindsight.

Everything I had read in this manifesto so far was being spoken through his voice in my head. If Clint willingly did what he did to me, what else was he capable of? He betrayed me. Those other rangers betrayed me—What if I deserved it? What if I was wrong to keep my silence? Was I so blinded with love I was willing to commit treason?

I needed to tell Linda. I just… didn't know how.

"Good morning," Linda said as I slipped through the back door and onto the porch. She was up long before I was, hammering in stakes for where decorative fences would be installed around a flower bed.

"Morning…" I said lazily, purposefully omitting the "good" because I wasn't feeling anything "good" lately. At least I could be honest about that.

With the first stake snug in the ground, she tied a line of thin rope around it to start the perimeter. Linda then shuffled over to the next spot, stifling a groan as she kneeled down. A weary sigh came next and she wiped her brow. I decided to come out from my shade. The dry dirt was cool on my feet, soothing the unsettling static that zapped my fingertips.

"Linda." My voice was weak, and she obviously noticed how quickly her attention snapped to me. I knelt down with her, not caring if I dirtied the holey jeans I was wearing. "There's something I wanted to tell you."

"What's on your mind?" She pushed the stake into the ground but it wasn't deep enough to stay. I got to it before her, pushing down harder on it and it stayed that time.

"Back in Vegas, before defending Hoover dam, Clint came to me one day and told me something odd." I stood up first and lent a hand to Linda—that was when I noticed what she was wearing. Nothing fancy was reserved for gardening or working around the house. Surely she had worn this outfit before, but I didn't look at Linda like I might have looked at some women. In places…

"What did he tell you?" She asked, plucking out a cloth from her back pocket and patted the sweat that had gathered on her neck and where her low-cut tank had left her chest exposed.

"H-he told me rangers were disappearing." I rubbed my temples, but my mind was wandering away from the important topic at hand.

I glanced at Linda, finding she had already moved over to the next spot for a stake. "Rangers were disappearing?"

Shuffling over, I shook my head disapprovingly at my own vagueness. "They weren't disappearing-disappearing." She readied the next stake and hammer then looked up at me, waiting for me to get to the point I was having trouble finding. "Rangers who answered to him were no longer under his oversight. They were being shuffled around so much they may have had a new CO every few months with new orders."

The weak taps of the hammer barely dented the metal stake. It was more like pecking than striking. "That's very unusual, and poor management…" When she glanced up at me, I was looking at her—until I wasn't. My gaze shot to the dirt, then the fence, then the clouds. This time, I rubbed the back of my neck like I could scrub away whatever thought just crossed my mind.

I wasn't gawking at her. Still, I couldn't help noticing… Well, of course women have breasts, yet Linda's situation was a little different than most women. It's not like I didn't notice she was physically different, but I was under the assumption it was a bra-stuffing situation like with Evie's little sisters—Not that it mattered! Maybe it was more an idle curiosity. How did they get there? Could I have breasts? Not that I wanted any. On myself at least.

I sighed to myself and looked at my feet again. Honestly, whatever I was thinking and feeling had nothing to do with Linda and everything to do with Vincent. How different was he? What did he look like? My imagination got carried away, drifting into territory it ought not to at that moment for fear of a physical response.

"Lawrence?"

I cleared my throat, but it didn't smooth over my unsteady voice. "Sorry, did you say something?"

"Could you bring over a stake?" Linda nodded to the pile closer to me.

"Yeah." I jumped at the opportunity to be useful. I knelt next to her, keeping my eyes focused as I hammered the stake in one go. Linda then knotted the rope around it. "I was also put on involuntary leave, but I don't know if it had anything to do with what Clint was telling me."

When she was done, she straightened her back and looked at me. "What did you do to get put on leave?"

"I—" A sigh escaped my lips, more out of frustration with myself than anything else. I couldn't quite put away the image of Vincent with a light coating of stubble in my head. Nor the imagined feeling of dense shoulder muscles under my hands—

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah." I lied. I was far from okay. Three years have passed since I last saw Vincent. I was hanging on by threads and memories—

"Are you sure?" Linda's hand rest on my shoulder and I thought I would start crying. "You seem a little off."

"I'm alright," I said, combing fingers through out-of-place hairs.

"Lawrence, what's on your mind?" She asked me so gently, I might have confessed.

"I just—" I threw my hands up in defeat and swallowed whatever I was feeling just to escape for a minute more. "I just don't like your outfit."

Linda laughed at that. Her snort surprised us both and even I chuckled. When she calmed enough she said, "yes, they're real."

"That is not what I was—"

She playfully patted my shoulder. "Then how did you know what I meant?"

"I'm not looking at you like that!" My face felt like it was on fire. "You've practically been a mom to me lately—I'm just adjusting to you and all your changes, and… And wondering about Vincent."

"Aww." Linda's laughter retreated in lieu of a smile. She flung her arms out, "come here."

"No." With my arms crossed against my chest, I leaned back. I actually did want a hug, but I couldn't give in. "You aren't sick though, are you? You seem more frail than I remember…"

"Sick? Not at all," Linda said, a hand waving off that notion. "I've been a guinea pig, though. I'm thinner, weaker, and have a lot of work done just to resemble the old lady I am. Maybe that's what you're noticing."

"I don't mean to be weird."

"Did you really mean it when you said I've been like a mom to you?" Linda's pruned brows came together. Eyes batted and her lips thinned as she clasped hands together.

"Yes," I said. "Which is why I don't understand why your kids don't talk to you—" Lawrence swallowed a knot in his throat. "I'd give anything to have this kind of relationship with my mother again."

Linda stretched open her arms again, and I didn't hesitate to take her offer. At least she couldn't see my face. Too many things were rushing about in my mind. Vincent. My mother. Linda. Eve—I sniffled realizing I hadn't been hugged in three years. Hadn't felt the touch of another person that meant no harm to me. Linda didn't seem to mind my clinginess though. I don't think either of us were counting the seconds that turned into minutes.

I of all people should have known how easy it was to take precious moments for granted.

"I'm sorry," I croaked as we parted.

"It's ok," she whispered, parting my hair like a mother would.

I sniffled again, wiping away tears with my shirt. "I owe you a bit more truth," I said. I pinched the bridge of nose and squeezed my eyes shut. This wouldn't be easy, and I was afraid what Linda would think of me. "Truth is, I was on leave because I assaulted a non-combatant—a civilian said he had information about Marcus's killers, legion movements, and kept stringing me along for money. I got impatient."

"Okay," her voice was undeservingly gentle. "I can see why you were put in timeout. Evidently it wasn't final since you were brought back in time to prepare for the defense."

I nodded at that, finally looking up to meet bronze irises glowing under the early afternoon light. "Were you given a psych evaluation?"

"Yes." My knees seemed to vibrate when I shifted my weight off them and sat on my butt instead. I never thought I would be this old, but here I was, feeling the weight of thirty-six years compressing my spine and heart. "Clint told me to cool off and he would handle the heat. I know he did all he could, but I was out for a couple months."

"What about after you were reinstated?"

"He told me he took care of it."

"Did you sign off on anything? Was this ever brought up in your trial?"

"No." I shook my head. "To both those questions.

"What? Your combat status was never brought into question, even to use against you?" Linda's eyes squinted suspiciously. "How long was this trial?"

"About two days."

Linda wasn't a gasper, but she wore a look like she had. "You were tried for conspiracy to commit treason in two days?" Her bony shoulders hung in a shrug as upturned palms waited for a good explanation to land in them. "I get it was a military court but something like that isn't handled in two days without very damning evidence. That could have been a death sentence!"

I rubbed the back of my neck. Time for another confession. "The focus of the trial was about my connection to Vincent, and by proxy his connection to House, and how that looked. Which wasn't good."

"Lawrence," Linda's voice fell to whisper. Wrinkled brows cracked the makeup around her eyes and her lips parted to say something she hadn't strung together yet. "Please be honest. No matter what you tell me, I'm not your superior. I'm your friend. Were you hiding something?"

My gaze fell to my hands, dirtied with soil now. "Yes. I knew what would happen at the dam. I knew about House's machines under Fortification Hill. I'm a traitor. I never told anyone. I chose not to. I chose Vincent—" I choked on my words but stammered out, "we would have had the dam if I—"

Linda shook her head and squeezed my hands. "No—"

"I betrayed everything we've worked for."

"Lawrence," Linda's voice took on a stern tone. "We can debate that later, but even if the NCR kept the dam, who knows what fallout that could have had? The Mojave would become more territory the NCR can barely hold on to. Or maybe it would back House into a corner and provoke him, or maybe it would throw us into a new war. Maybe what happened was the best scenario. It doesn't matter what could have been. What is now, is what matters and what we have to deal with."

Shame still weighed me down. Three years was plenty of time to think about the alternatives. What I should have done and what I wanted to do. Those things I was still battling. I screwed myself over and was suffering the consequences. Beaten and humiliated by men I called allies, convicted for treason, discharged without honor, and to top off I burned my bridge with Vincent. My second chance at love. A love that, despite how short it was, gave me so much more than anything else I had.

"What we should do is talk to Anderson about pulling records of the trial and service," Linda declared.

"You think it has something to do with what's going on?"

"I've been out of the field a lot longer than you, honey." Linda chuckled. "What's a ranger's first task?"

"Get as much as information as possible."

"Exactly. I think it's relevant in some way."

—

I didn't like locking myself away in my room. Definitely not with three years of having no say in the matter still leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. But there were a few occasions when I did to narrow my focus on the work securing my freedom. Or, it was a Wednesday…

A certain gaggle of feminine mystique invaded the house one day a week everyday. They talked for hours like generals strategizing. Exchanged classified information gathered beyond the battlefield in the way spies did then discussed their plots without reservations. Linda warned me they were a ruthless bunch. Well, not exactly like that. It was more along the lines of, "I host my book club meeting on Wednesdays, so we'll take up the living room—but you're welcome to join!"

I knew a trap when I saw one.

Cracking open the door let a piercing laugh assault my ears. I'd been through worse though. The unique hell that was the Mojave desert. Through irradiated wastelands where thunder rolled green. Deep in legion territory to rescue fallen rangers. Led settlers in the badlands of Baja, rationing food, and water for miles, and never gave in, but this… This was new territory. But a man's got to do what a man's got to do, and I was dying for a cup of coffee.

I slipped out the door, stealthily and quietly clinging to the hallway wall, freezing just in time to blend into my surroundings should an eye catch me. Continuing laughs and girly chatter confirmed the opportunity to tiptoe to the kitchen—the strong aroma pulled me by the nose to the steamy pot spelling my name out in water vapor beads. My resolve was replenished for the journey back—

"Hubba, hubba, who is he?"

"Oh, look at that jawline…"

I froze solid, but my cover was blown. Maybe if I stood still long enough and didn't turned around they'd lose interest.

"I want to squeeze those shoulders," a listless sigh breathed.

"I want to squeeze that tight little butt—"

When the feminine giggles and enthusiastic chatter paused was when I started to get worried. I had no choice but to brave potentially hostile territory.

"Shh! Shh! Shh! Act proper ladies. He's turning around."

Four women were staring at me from their fort of plush floral print pillows and matching sofa covers. Smiling, batting her eyes, twirling hair—Never had I felt so much dread. My mission was unsuccessful…

"Oh, you're scaring him!" Linda said. At least she was still on my side.

"Were you going to keep him to yourself?"

"What?" Linda squeaked. "I told you I had a guest."

"You didn't tell us he was handsome, Linda."

I sipped his coffee. Unfortunately, Linda was going to be my cover while I slipped away. She'd understand though. Except one set her crosshairs on me. She hiked up a long green skirt crossing one leg over the other and patted the barely empty space next to her.

"Come, enjoy that over here, sweetie."

I briefly considered the offer. She was cute and, well, I wasn't getting any younger. There'd be a day where I would be too wrinkly and gray and I knew I'd miss the attention I got used to. That process was already happening, but I plucked out the gray hairs wherever they reared their ugly silver strands.

"Martha, you slut!"

Martha gasped, looking at the woman next to her, judging her up and down. She only sputtered a scoff in lieu of a comeback. Another opportunity to escape presented itself, but it slipped away.

"Ladies." The rambunctious lot quelled themselves at Linda's order. She stood up, poise and ladylike. "Lawrence, this is my book club. I'll introduce you to everyone—" She snapped back to the group and her tone sharpened. "As long as they behave."

Hubba-Hubba was Tiffany. A raspy-voiced, heavy set woman full of character as tall as her red hair and as clashing as her blue eyeshadow. She wielded expressive hand gestures and flirty looks that spoke more than her words. The jawline-admirer went by Leah and was the youngest which meant she was an easily flustered so I needed only to glance at her with the faintest smile to make her swoon. Shoulder-Squeezer settled on the name Martha recently—her grandmother's name. She must have been closer in age to Leah but I think she had something in common with Linda. Miss Grabby-Hands was easily pinned as an upper-class woman who may have fit the name of Sza Sza better than Ava. She knew what she wanted, and I could tell too by the way her throaty chuckle bubbled, holding out a limp wrist for a queen's handshake.

"I'll get everyone refreshments. Play nice," Linda said, but her book club was too busy letting out wistful sighs, flirty giggles, and asking questions whose only purpose was to steal my attention for a moment.

It only took a minute for me to be nestled between all four women and reliving younger days when Evelyn's little sisters used me as makeup-practice. Ava directed the group effort, coordinating colors from their pooled assortment of cosmetics. Brushes tickled my cheeks and eyelids. Someone's lipstick was cool and moist on my lips, which after applying the women collectively murmured in agreement that I wore it well. I wasn't entirely a victim, however. Like with Eve's sisters, I took enjoyment letting these four have fun—their compliments and admiration were also a boon, especially after some harassment in prison about my lips.

When the chatter quieted, I opened my eyes to find Linda had rejoined us. She put her weight on one heel and hummed thoughtfully. "I don't think red is your color."

The girls' laughs and clashing compliments almost silenced the knock on the door. Linda set the platter down and let them resume their fun while she answered. Before my hair was to be styled, Anderson interrupted the party.

"Oh, woah. Hope I'm not interrupting, or joining…"

My face dropped any amusement I might have been showing and stiffened up meeting Anderson's peculiar look. I politely excused myself, stepping around pointy toed heels and one pair of scuffed boots.

"Just checking in, but it looks like you're doing, uh," Anderson's voice trailed off, but it was obvious his attention was on my impromptu makeover. "Doing pretty good for house-arrest."

"Just havin' a li'l fun," I said as casually as possible. "I actually had something I wanted to talk to you about."

"It might be a little hard to take you seriously like that," Anderson muttered. He squinted at me. "So shiny…"

"Do your best." I went first down the hallway and Anderson followed. At the back door, I stopped and immediately got to the point. "Could you pull records about my service history?"

"Yeah, I could probably get something." Anderson broadened his shoulders as hands hung on his belt. "Might take a while though. Not everything from the war has made its way home."

"What about my trial's documents?"

"You got to give me a little tit for tat."

"You're not dealing with some disgruntled civilians. This is a militia," I explained, but this revelation should have been obvious. "They are organized, well-armed, and well trained—think about what kind of training someone who can get away with murdering four high-profile politicians and not be found has."

Anderson's eyes fell to the floor processing that. He nodded slowly as the gears turned in his head, "I presumed that much. The real question is who are these people? I got theories up the wazoo. The republic's got a lot of enemies, y'know? Of course you know that."

I hesitated to speak my mind. Uncertainty was my own shadow after all, and I was unsure if my gut-feeling was accurate. Still, I might have known who was behind all this, down to the specific individual like Anderson wanted. But I needed to be sure; throwing around accusations about republic's heroes shouldn't be done lightly. At least this time I was certain lying by omission was the right choice. "I think these people are from the republic, not outside of it."

The lights went on in Anderson's eyes. I shouldn't be too harsh on him though. His focus was to keep the people on the long hitlist in the manifesto alive. Mine was figuring out who was behind it. "Why's that?"

"You've read the manifesto right? There's an important piece of information in here only I, and a handful of other people know about; what was waiting in the bunker under Fortification Hill."

"I see…" Anderson brought a hand to his face and wiped non-existent crumbs from the corner of his mouth. "And they knew this because they were there. I was hoping it wasn't true…"

"You suspected this all along, though. It's why you came for me."

"I promise I'm not as dumb as I look," Anderson shrugged. "I had suspicions somebody with your kind of background could be involved, but I was really hoping that wasn't true. And to be fair, Linda might have bribed me with her baking.

"Whoever did this, the only thing they got wrong was advertising their hit list like this and thinking it can't be used against them," I said, careful not to give away too much leverage. "Could be a ranger, could be people who were trained by rangers, or former army… Or maybe it is just some really pissed off civilians."

—

"I think the biggest takeaway is how much Californians were lied to and manipulated. Of course, support for the war was waning before 2281, but now we are at an all-time low of confidence in our public officials."

I pinched the bridge of my nose and shut my eyes. Reopening them, my vision came back into focus. There wasn't a lot of bureaucratic work when it came to being a ranger, but it was easily my least favorite part of the job; recording, documenting, explaining unimportant details ad nauseam—a lot of what I was doing out there was instinct. The stuff I wasn't proud of were orders.

"They can come out of the woodworks condemning misuse of tax-payer money all they want, but the fact is, our children were drafted to fight this war with no intention of properly training or outfitting them—"

"I don't think that's a fair assessment, but I agree with the sentiment. There was training, but it clearly fell short, and maybe—maybe that comes back to the fact the NCRA was so short staffed due to mismanagement?"

"Oh, absolutely—"

I looked over my shoulder and out the living room window to another day in sunny New California. Where the birds sang, where the mountains were like green velvet blankets in the spring, where the blue expanse crashed on golden shores. Sometimes I thought I could smell the ocean, but it was miles away from Linda's humble abode. I much rather be out there. Not specifically here, in the Boneyard, or even California, but outside. Free. In the wild, trekking mountains and highways. Exploring, like I did with Vincent when we had lazy days…

The doorbell stole me from a daydream. I looked at Linda and before she could say anything or wipe clean her hands of batter, I jumped to my feet and answered the door. Anderson welcomed himself inside wearing a look somehow more serious than his unusual deadpan expression.

"We got a problem," was the first thing out of his mouth. He handed me a manila envelope. "Those are the records you asked for. Couldn't get anything from the trial because it's classified. You must be really interesting to get that big ol' red stamp."

"What's the problem?" Linda asked, shuffling a rag in damp hands.

"Mayor Harold Ledecky."

"Ledecky?" That name sounded familiar, yet I couldn't place it. And before I could get to the envelope, Linda had taken it from me while I was distracted.

"He was on the shit list for taking bribes by agriculture barons to get military personnel to guard farmlands," Anderson explained. "Also accused of some other uncouth behavior…"

"Did you catch the killer?"

"Oh, Ledecky isn't dead." Anderson craned his neck and went on, "got some lead in him, but not dead yet. And no, didn't catch whoever tried to kill him." He clapped hands together and bore a cheeky smile, "now whether that's the same people responsible for the other murders or angry ghouls is the latest puzzle on my hands, or should I say our hands?"

I stepped back to the couch sensing this would be a longer conversation. "Angry ghouls?"

"Wow, you still haven't caught up?" Anderson gave me a stupid look, with a stupid little squint. But I held back. "What year do you think it is?"

"Ledecky is unpopular with the ghouls in his city, and rightfully so," Linda said as she took a seat next to me and parsed the documents stuffed in the envelope.

"The whole thing with scrapping Necropolis instead of building the memorial they requested kind of pissed 'em off." Anderson exaggerated a shrug, "I mean they're definitely not treated good to begin with…"

"Here I was thinkin' everything's so different… Glad to see Bakersfield is still California's swampy taint."

"I brought a souvenir though," Anderson announced. He pulled out a wadded cloth from his coat pocket, unwrapped it, and revealed to me a casing.

I needed only a quick glance to tell what gun would have expended it. "This looks like a .308 casing. Ledecky survived this?

"That's still up for debate, but he's in good care," Anderson reminded. "Still processing all the info so, I'll be back probably next week to add to your li'l pile here—oh, and I'll need that back." Anderson bunched up the casing, shoved it back in his pocket while muttering, "technically evidence n' whatnot…"

When the front door shut behind Anderson, it was about five minutes of Linda shuffling papers before she finally spoke and put a stop to the nervous tingles taking over my limbs.

"We need to address the yao guai in the room," she said. Those tingles revved up like thrumming static.

"What's on your mind?" My voice was unsteady. I clamped my hands together to take the edge off.

"This isn't the frontier, Lawrence. People can't carry around firearms in public anymore. Most regulations are up to the states, but federal law allows for private ownership of small firearms and bolt-action rifles only." Linda set the bulk of my records on the table. Some of them, I pondered, she might have contributed to. "Of course, there's always black markets, but what I'm getting at is who do you think has the training, the resourcefulness, and the know-how to get a long-range rifle, use it with the kind of accuracy we've seen, and not be caught?"

I clenched my jaw. It was certainly in the back of my mind since I dived into the manifesto. Everything that was in it… Linda leaned forward, picking out one document among my entire career that seemed so small when summarized in paper.

"Lawrence, I know this isn't going to be easy to hear, but what you told me about Clint… It's raising some alarms." She scooted closer to me and showed what she had picked out. "There's enough red flags here to make a praetorian kowtow."

I squeezed my eyes shut after only a split second glance at that paper. Everything I had wrote on it came flooding back as fresh as when I put the pencil to that questionnaire. The first time I met that specific form was after an incident in Laughlin. Filling it out a second time though, I defied Marcus's voice whispering from the grave urging me to lie again.

"That's not to say there's anything wrong with you and you are not crazy." Linda set a warm palm on my tense forearm. "I'm so sorry, Lawrence. Your card should have never been put back in the deck until you got the help you needed. Even more suspicious is this is where your record ends. There's nothing here that says you were at Forlorn Hope, Camp Golf, Hoover Dam. Not even liberal use of black-out to suggest you were ever enlisted for a confidential mission to gather intel on House, but there's concern about your connection to House and some extracurricular activities with Vincent."

"You don't think…" My mouth was dry. Ringing deafened my ears and even my vision refused to focus. I was betrayed long before Clint ever laid hands on me—laid hands on me like my father did. "Clint?"

"I can't tell you much about Clint. He stopped talking to me long before my ex-wife did. I'm not going to bad mouth him either—I don't know," Linda shrugged. Her bony shoulders hung, caught up on the right words to say and how to say them. "He said he dealt with the bureaucracy when he asked you to come back, right?"

"Yeah," I nodded. "That's when he told me about the rangers being shuffled around."

"And he defies orders at Hoover Dam along with a significant number of other rangers."

"One," I sat up straight, "Swanson. He had to have been talking to Clint ahead of that. It was planned. Nothing that happened was some spur-of-the-moment patriotism."

"I can think of a lot of rangers I knew that would have eagerly joined him," Linda said. "Which leads to another hypothesis: he intentionally did not go through proper channels to get you reinstated or outright ignored them—This is all just conjecture, though."

"No, no—I want to hear your thoughts. I've always valued your input."

Linda seemed to hesitate to continue. "Clint trusted you." Her voice calmed to a whisper like we were speaking blasphemy. "He knew you were capable. He knew you would join him because you trusted him."

I massaged his brows. My legs had been bobbing nervously the whole time and now they finally propelled me up. "And he's still manipulating me. Reading everything in that—" I halted in my steps, pointing at the offending object on the table. "That fucking thing tells me it's him! It can't be him though…" My shoulders slumped as I was drained of all the strength I had just to keep myself upright. I looked up to Clint for so long. I used to wish he was my dad, my real father. Funny though, Clint isn't much different than Jacob. "But it is him, isn't it?"