Three Decades of Pretending Come to an End in a Military Holding Cell
“Hey, kiddo,” Glenn called out.
“You missed a great lunch.
Martha made her famous chicken salad.”
I walked over to the edge of the wet concrete.
Warm water pooled around my shoes and soaked quickly into the dry dirt of the yard.
“I had some errands in town,” I said.
Glenn hosed down the dusty hood of his truck.
He whistled a low, off-key tune while he worked.
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