“My parents are trying to empty out my grandfather’s estate before the probate period runs out,” I said.

“Grab your gear,” Holt said.

“And keep your radio on.”

I swung my sea bag up onto my left shoulder and walked out into the damp autumn air of the depot parking lot.

The four-dollar coffee I’d bought at the gate tasted like scorched paper and tin.

My grandfather had passed away four months earlier, leaving his whole estate locked in a private trust for Ethan until he turned twenty-one.

For ten years after I enlisted, my parents had acted as if I didn’t exist, but now they were phoning my unit commander before breakfast.

I paid the four-dollar ticket at the exit gate, pulled my sedan out onto Elm Avenue, and drove straight for the north side of town.

Damp maple leaves lined the gravel driveway at the Pine Street mansion.

Inside the kitchen, the smell of fresh dark roast coffee hung in the air, yet the room felt as cold as a storage locker in a basement.

My mother, Evelyn, lifted a porcelain pot and poured black coffee into a delicate gold-rimmed china cup.

She smoothed her silk designer scarf against her throat before she set the pot down on a silver trivet.

“You look thin, Madison,” Evelyn said, her affection as sharp and conditional as it had always been.

“The service life obviously doesn’t agree with your constitution.”