The road twisted through the fields like an old scar, silvered with frost. Hay bales leaned in empty pastures under a sky sagging low and gray. If you looked hard enough, it was beautiful, cold, rough, stubborn. I forced myself to see it.
The heater in the rental rattled as I turned it up a notch. The radio crackled out a Johnny Cash song from a country station I had found somewhere past Sweetwater. The music filled the car like a memory you didn’t ask for but couldn’t turn off. It kept me company, in its own way.
Highway 411 unwound under the tires, carrying me past barns caving in on themselves and pastures littered with snow dusted tractors. Sunday morning. Church bells somewhere, though the mist swallowed the sound. People were out there, living lives the way normal folks did.
I was not one of them. At least not anymore.
The turn-off came up fast, a sagging fence line and a battered mailbox leaning drunk into the wind. Gravel and ice spat up under the wheels as I made the turn, the road narrowing between skeletal trees. Another quarter mile, another bend, and I was there.
The house hunched low against the winter, the land around it too big for a yard and too small to farm. It looked tired but stubborn, like the man inside.
I eased off the gas and rolled up behind a battered Dodge Ram. The tailgate sagged under two bumper stickers, peeling at the edges. DISABLED VETERAN and U.S. ARMY STRONG. Faded ink, earned words.
It had been two years since I’d seen Clay. Longer, actually. Two years since I’d seen much of anyone.
I sat for a second, letting the engine idle. I scanned the property for threats, more out of habit than worry. Old habits die hard.
I killed the engine and got out. The cold bit through my jacket, reminding me I belonged in Florida and not here. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets and started up the path, the frost crunching under my boots. A low rumble called out from inside, the front door opening before I had a chance to knock.
"Figured you wouldn't come," Clay said, silhouetted against the yellow light from the hallway. His voice was rougher than I remembered, worn at the edges, but underneath it was the same old Clay, stubborn and solid.
"Guess you still don’t know me that well," I said, stepping inside. The warmth hit me all at once, humid and close. I could smell coffee and tobacco, and something frying in the kitchen. Clay shut the door behind me, and I caught a look at him. He seemed smaller, somehow, like the years had finally caught up and run him down.
"Made breakfast," Clay said, nodding toward the kitchen. "Figured you weren't eating right."
"Ate a corndog a few hours ago near Macon," I said.
"That ain't food," he said.
Clay guided us into the kitchen, where the floor creaked like a vintage ship. The linoleum was worn, and the cabinets bore the marks of long use, giving the place a lived-in, straightforward charm, much like Clay himself. He took the bacon from the cast iron skillet and set it beside a pan of biscuits. Two chipped ceramic mugs awaited us.
“Dig in,” he said. I did.
He poured coffee, his hands not as steady as they used to be.
"You still take it black?" he asked, watching me sidelong.
"Yeah," I said. "No cream in the Army."
I took a bite, the biscuit warm and soft.
I could feel him sizing me up. "How's the back?" I asked.
"Doc told me I need surgery," Clay admitted. "I hate to say it, but he's right. I also don't like asking you for this favor. If I could go, I would."
"You're not asking. I'm still glad to serve, you know that."
"You’re a better man than half those bastards they took for Delta. All that nonsense that got you kicked out…"
"That's in the past," I replied. "Let's concentrate on what we can handle."
Clay placed some Skoal in his lip and started talking.
"He got in touch with me three days ago. He told me he wouldn't be reachable for a while because something occurred at his job. When I asked for more information, he told me it was better if I didn't know."
"Did he explain what happened or why he wouldn't be contactable?"
Clay spat before answering. "No, he didn't. I suspect he was concerned someone might be eavesdropping. Usually, he's quite open about technical details, even though I often don't get half of it."
"Where was he working?"
"I can't remember the exact name, but it's located in Lucerne, Switzerland. It starts with an A. Alpo…something. From what I gather, it's a cybersecurity company."
"Are you certain he's in trouble? Not just tangled up with a girl, or a boy?"
"Probably a girl, though I'm hopeless at guessing those things," he said with a wry grin. "I had you figured out all wrong."
"I'm great at keeping secrets," I admitted.
"He ended the conversation with 'I love you.' He never says that. And the way he said it, it was like he wasn't sure he'd still be around tomorrow." Clay spat again.
The look on his face was like a punch to the gut. "He's my kid," Clay went on. "I refuse to sit here and wait for the phone to ring. So I called you.”
“It’s been a couple years since I’ve been operational. But I’ll leave today.”
“I got some money, can cover your costs.”
"Keep it. You mentioned you're having surgery soon, right? You'll need it."
“We’ll settle up when you’re back,” he countered. “This is worth the money. Because it’s not about the money.”
“You got an address for where he was living?”
Clay got up from the table and shuffled through some mail on the counter. I noticed a couple envelopes marked “Past Due” and “Final Notice”.
He finally gave me a postcard. The front was a view of Lucerne, a lake with the mountains a jagged line against the sky. On the back, in Noah's sharp scrawl, an apartment address. I double-checked it, making sure I could read it.
"He sent this over the summer," Clay said, tapping the card. "Should have what you need.”
"So when's the surgery?"
"Next week. It’d be nice if he were here, just in case anything happens." The words hung in the air.
“It won’t.”
I drained the last of my coffee and headed for the door, with Clay following behind, a bit slower.
“We’ve come a long way since I was your drill sergeant,” Clay said. “But I’m giving you an order. Bring him home.”
I shook his hand firmly. “Don’t worry, I will.”