1976

"You must forgive me for being late," Marlene continued as she sat down next to Lily, "I got caught up at the office. Apparently two of my—Well, I shouldn't say too much here." She glanced at Dorcas who had piqued her eyebrows in interest. "But Aurors, my girl, can be terribly demanding when they want something. Especially when there's two of them arguing for the same cause, and probably even more so when they've just eloped, but that's neither here nor there."

Dorcas began to chuckle, "So they finally did it then?" she said, gleefully. "About time."

"That's all very well for you to say, Dorcas, but I'm the one cleaning up the mess they've made. Going through protocols and policies and all sorts of terribly boring paperwork that they've left me to deal with. And of course they both threatened to quit if we split them up, which is, of course, the protocol, but honestly they're the best pair we've got so I couldn't care less if they're married so long as they keep up the standard of work they've been doing."

Dorcas laughed again. Lily looked curiously at the pair of them. "Who?" she ventured to ask.

"Well," Marlene replied, "I suppose there's no harm in sharing so long as it stays between us." Marlene smiled. "Frank Longbottom and Alice Fa—Well I suppose it's Longbottom now, actually, but if you knew the name it would be Alice Fawley."

"I've read about them in the paper!" Lily responded, a bit more enthusiastically than she would have liked. She felt herself blush a bit and much more calmly said, "That's very sweet."

"Sweet for them," Marlene said. Dorcas laughed and Lily, a bit hesitantly followed suit. "So," Marlene turned to Lily, "Dorcas tells me you've got a rather keen interest in politics."

"Yes, I do," Lily replied, "I mean, it's almost a requirement for me. I'm Muggle Born, you see."

"Right, right, of course. So you follow the happenings?"

"Yes, I do. I've gotten The Prophet since I was 12 and, I didn't read them very carefully when I was younger but as I got older I started to pay a bit more attention." She took a deep breath and glanced down at her bottle of Butterbeer, peeling the label a bit. "Maybe the stories just got harder to ignore."

"I'd certainly say they have," Dorcas said, giving Lily a soft smile.

"I would as well," Marlene said, a bit more subdued than she had been a few moments ago. "And The Prophet only tells the stories The Ministry approves. I think you'd be surprised at how much is left out. Even with an in." She raised her coffee cup to her lips and took a sip.

Lily looked at Dorcas, and found the affirmation in her gaze. "Oh," she said quietly.

"There are of course, other outlets. Do you ever listen to the Wireless?"

"No," Lily shook her head, "No, I haven't."

Marlene smiled and gave Dorcas a rather knowing look. "You ought to look into it. You'll find some rather… interesting points of view. More than you'll find in the paper."

"Oh, okay. I'll look into it then."

"Good," she took another sip of coffee, "but you know, the news will only teach you so much."

Lily nodded her head, and continued to peel the label of her bottle. "Right," her brows were furrowed together, "I—" she exhaled loudly.

Marlene allowed the silence to linger for a moment before beginning again. "I assume you've met with Professor McGonagall about your career plans?" Lily lifted her head with renewed interest. "Any chance those plans involve my department?"

Lily's eyes grew wide and she pulled herself back slightly. "Yeah," she said, breathless. "I can't imagine doing anything else, honestly."

Marlene beamed at her. "Wonderful! Do you have any plans for the summer?"

"No, not really."

"Good, good. Normally the DMLE doesn't take on interns, and honestly, there's not much work for an intern to do, but I think I could make good use of a personal assistant for the summer. You know, filing, making appointments, helping me talk out problems…" a small smile played on her lips, "You could gain a lot of beneficial experience."

Lily blinked at her in utter bewilderment.

"So," Marlene said, "would you like to come work for me?"

"Oh," she said, surprised, "Oh my goodness."

1940

Jack stirred a bit at the sound. He was stiff and sore from sleeping on the hard surface all night. He ignored the voice and rolled over, not yet ready to face the world.

"Jack? Jack Evans? Is that you?"

Christ. He continued to ignore her, hoping she would leave.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Jack! What are you doing here?"

"Sleeping," he spat without turning over.

"On a bench in the middle of Manchester?"

He hadn't recognized the voice yet, but he didn't much care who was speaking to him. "What's it to you?" He rolled over and opened his eyes.

"We all thought you were dead!" The girl had begun leaning over him now, her curled blond hair falling over her shoulders, though it was held back by a ribbon. Her blue eyes were practically glowing with anger.

"Good God, Mae," he said pushing himself into a sitting position and forcing her away from him. "Do you have to shout?"

"Yes!" Jack grimaced at her shrill voice. "Your mother has been worried sick since you left, hasn't stopped crying once since then I don't think and then you stopped writing to her and she thought you were dead for certain and then you just turn up and don't even bother to see your parents? What is wrong with you?"

Jack sat up and rubbed his eyes, looking around for his bottle. He spied it sitting up near the leg of the bench and leaned over to grab it. He hadn't even brought it all the way to his lips when Mae ripped it from his hands and threw it into the street. He watched as the glass shattered over the pavement.

"OI!" He shouted, "I paid good money for that!"

"Pity," Mae snapped back.

Jack groaned.

"Go see your mother. I'm tired of watching her sob through service every Sunday."

Jack closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He exhaled loudly.

"She prays for you. Every day. And has everyone else pray for you too. Do you have any idea how many times I've asked God to keep you safe? To bring you home? A fairly tall order considering you're doing everything in your power to put yourself in danger."

"CHRIST." He brought his hands to his hair in frustration. "You really lay it on thick doncha?"

"Go see your mother. And take a shower first. You reek."

"Thanks."

Mae rose from the bench. "I'll see you on Sunday," she said before walking away.

"GOD-FUCKING-DAMMIT."

He saw Mae flinch a bit at the sound, but she didn't turn around or acknowledge it in any other way. Had he still had his bottle, he would have thrown it himself. As it was, he yelled again, picked up his hat from the bench and chucked it on the ground.

There really was no choice now. If he didn't show up, Mae would tell his mother and she'd send out a search party and fuck—If he didn't want to go home on his own now, he definitely didn't want someone to find him and bring him home.

And it wasn't as if he didn't want to see his mother. His mother… fuck, he had done a number to her, that was certain. He hadn't intended to, of course. His mother was a casualty in the war he was sure to start with his father. He wanted to see his mother. He had planned on it, really. But he couldn't see his mother without seeing his father and he just… he thought it might be easier if he had had a drink or two first. But a drink or two and turned into five or seven or ten, possibly, and he'd ended up asleep on a bench somewhere in Manchester. He must have been on his way home, if he was close enough to run into Mae Honor on her way to—wherever the fuck she was going. Fucking Maeve Honor, always ruining everything.

He rested his head in his hands and sighed heavily. He couldn't not go. Fuck. He stood up, grabbed his cap and kicked the bench, cursing at the pain that coursed into his foot. He started walking, vaguely sure he was headed in the right direction. He started looking for a loo of some kind, or a shop where he could use one. Someone had to let him; he was a serviceman, after all.

He found a shop a few blocks from his bench and entered tentatively. "Loo?" he asked, looking toward the clerk. The large, balding man nodded his head in the appropriate direction. "Thanks," Jack said, waving.

He entered the bathroom, closing the door behind him. For the first time in several days, he looked at himself in the mirror. If he hadn't had such distinct eyes, he wouldn't have recognized himself. He was haggard, tired looking. There were bags under his eyes, his lips were chapped to bleeding and there wasn't enough saliva in his mouth to wet them. The bridge of his nose and cheekbones where shiny with sweat, and his brown hair was dark with moisture.

He turned on the tap, cupped some water in his hands, and began to scrub his face vigorously. He attempted to wet his head under the faucet, but couldn't manage it as well as he had intended. He thought about scrubbing his hair, but figured it wouldn't do much good at this point, and used his fingers to slick it back instead. After a few more minutes of makeshift cleaning, he redressed himself, gathered his things and left the room. He nodded another thanks at the clerk before exiting the building and stepping out onto the street.

He didn't need to look around to know where he was, he didn't need to think to find his way home. In fact, he tried very hard not to think. He imagined he was back in France, left right left right, it was warm. He started to sweat again, the sensation was almost soothing. Left right left right, this was a march, just like any other. Just a march. He'd marched for miles. This was the first thing he had learned how to do as a soldier. March. Onward, ever onward. Through the rain or snow or blazing heat, he would move forward. Through bullets and bombs and behind enemy lines, he would move forward. He'd march toward maiming, capture, certain death and terrible defeat. Just as any good soldier should. He'd marched a hundred thousand miles in far more perilous conditions, and yet, Jack and never been so nervous.

He turned the corner to his street and swallowed hard. He moved faster so he could not turn around. Before he could think again, he was standing in front of the door and knocking on it. The sound startled him. For a second, he thought about turning tail and running. He couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't—He turned his back toward the door, but stopped at the steps. He took a deep breath and reconsidered. He should see his mother. He couldn't see his father. They would know he was around either way. Staying meant he could keep them, leaving meant losing them forever.

"Oh sweet Jesus," he hadn't heard the door open behind him. "God, help me—" His mother was speaking in a quick, panicked voice, hardly a whisper, barely holding back a sob.

He hadn't realized what this looked like.

He turned around and took a step toward her. Her expression changed from unfathomable pain, to utter shock to joy. Tears still filled her warm brown eyes, but now a smile lit up her face.

"Hi, Mum," he said, feebly.

His mother's arms were around his neck before he had finished the sentence. He wrapped his arms around her waist, "Jack," she said, and he felt warm tears on his shoulder, "Jack you're home!" She pulled away and cupped his face in her hands. She stared at his face like she would never see it often enough. He stared back, soaking in the most comforting sight he knew.

And for a moment, all was well in the world.

"John," his father's voice came from the doorway. There was no emotion there. "Welcome home."

1916

Charlie Hooper laughed and patted Phil heartily on the back as he walked into the dugout.

"Home sweet home," Phil responded dryly while dropping his pack onto his cot. He heard the thunder of a shell dropping somewhere in the distance. "Things here are the same, then?"

Hooper chuckled again, "What'd you expect?"

"Evans!" Finch greeted as entered the dirt room. "Good to have ya back."

"Shirts got holes in 'em?" Phil asked.

"Trousers," Finch corrected. "And we were down one for poker. Had to play with Ayers."

"Robbed us blind," Hooper joined in.

"At least I'm useful," Phil said. He wasn't sure if he was joking.

"Course ya are," Finch said, "We're far more likely to die if you're not here to take the bullet for us."

Phil nodded and took a seat on his cot. Finch shot him a friendly smirk before he turned to leave. "Poker tonight?" Hooper called.

"Long as we don't die first!" Finch responded.

Phil was in no way surprised by the interaction. He was well aware of what his comrades thought; that he was useless except for sewing shirts and shielding. He was a bit useless. At the Front anyway. He hoped, at least, that he was useful enough to warrant not being used as a shield in battle.

Phil had never quite understood the stories he'd heard of men jumping in front of others to save a friend. It seemed the ultimate act of selflessness, but Phil knew it was more complex than that. His mother wouldn't find it so selfless if he died when he didn't have to. And what of Fi—Fiona would certainly agree.

He thought for a moment about writing to her, of telling her everything he thought about it. But he hadn't yet received a reply from the last two letters he'd sent, and he thought it might be better for him to read some of her thoughts before he'd shared all of his. He had known her for three hours, he reminded himself. She was a stranger. He shouldn't expect to know what she would think, and he shouldn't share all of his thoughts with her. Not just yet, anyway.

Three hours, he reflected. Hardly any time at all, but it seemed like he had known her all of his life. He couldn't think of three better hours of his life. He smiled to himself at the thought of her. Imagined her face. Her hair. The way her smile made the sun come out.

"Good visit home then?" Hooper interrupted.

"Yeah," Phil responded, focusing back on reality.

"Nice visit with your sweetheart?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"No," Phil sighed. "I haven't got one."

"Some of the local girls then?"

"No," Phil shook his head.

"Well I shoulda known better than to expect anything exciting out of you."

"Have you got one?" Phil asked.

"Exciting stories? Not lately."

"A sweetheart," he corrected.

"Nah," Charlie responded. "Couldn't possibly pick just one. But I did have a lovely little visit with Demelza Spinnet last I was home."

"And Miss Spinnet isn't good enough to be the one?"

"She's a missus, actually."

Phil looked at him for a beat before chuckling and shaking his head.

"Besides, why should I stick to one when they're all lining up for war heroes?"

"Love," Phil answered simply.

"You're a sap, Evans."

Phil laughed. "You're surprised?"

Charlie looked at him. "Not a bit. You got your eye on one then?"

"Sort of. I can't stop thinking about her."

"Best get your head out of the cloud, Evans. Can't afford to be distracted out here. You're clumsy enough as it is."

Phil looked at him.

Charlie shrugged.

"Where are the trousers?" Phil asked. "And the shirts. And whatever the Hell else you lot've ruined since I've been gone."

Hooper grinned. He pointed to a small stack in the corner. "What would we do without you, Evans?"

1976

"File your own paperwork, I expect," Lily said with a cheeky grin.

Frank Longbottom grinned back at her and chuckled. "You're a life-saver, Evans, really."

Lily chuckled and thanked him. "Now go," she said, "can't keep your wife waiting."

"No," he said, "I'd hate to be on the wrong side of her wand."

"Anyone with any sense would, really."

Frank laughed again. "Very true. Have a good one, Evans." He turned to leave, off on one of many adventures with his wife.

"You too, Frank!" she waved at him as he left.

She took the report he had handed her and went back to her desk near the front of the office. She took a seat in her chair and began reading it over.

Auror arrived on scene at approximately 2136 hours. Muggle victim was being treated by a Mediwitch, complaining of symptoms consistent with the Cruciatus Curse. Muggle reported be attacked by a group of three or more perpetrators while walking on a secluded street. Perpetrators were wearing dark hoods and masks. He stated he lost consciousness before the attackers left. He could not give any identifying information. Mediwitch confirmed probable use of the Cruciatus Curse. Muggle's memory modified by Obliviators after questioning.

Lily grimaced. This was not an unusual report by any means, and in fact, it was relatively tame compared to some others she had read. She had, of course, read many others in her short time at the DMLE. It had become clear rather quickly that this was the reason Dorcas had introduced her to Marlene, and why Marlene had offered her the job. These attacks never made the Prophet. And this sort of thing, these attacks, this was the real meat of the war, wasn't it? A hatred of Muggles and Muggleborns so intense that they were seen by many as toys; things to play with and destroy however they saw fit. It was absolutely despicable and made Lily's stomach churn.

She sighed and filed the report with the others that needed to be approved by the Head Auror by the end of the week. Later, they'd be given back to her to pass on to Marlene.

She heard the door creak open as she finished organizing the stack of papers and turned back around. "Can I hel—Potter?"

"Evans?"

"What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Working."

"You work here?"

"Obviously."

"Right. I'm here to see Marlene McKinnon."

"Why?" She paused for a beat and then corrected herself, "I mean, does she know you're coming?"

"Yeah," he said, "we're going for lunch."

Lily looked at him suspiciously.

"She's my godmother."

Lily tilted her head in disbelief. She had just started to move her lips in order to form some sort of speech, but was interrupted by Marlene coming out of her office. "James!" She moved into the lobby, "You're here! Wonderful! How good to see you! Lily, this is my godson, James."

"We've met," she replied.

"You know—Of course you know each other! Same year, same house! How stupid of me not to put it together sooner. Lily you must come to lunch with us."

"Oh, no, that's alright," Lily said quickly.

"Nonsense!"

"No really, my mum made me lunch today and I've still got work to do, and I'd really hate to intrude."

"It's not an intrusion if you're invited," James interjected. "Come to lunch with us, Lily."

Lily opened her mouth to speak.

"I won't take no for an answer!" Marlene said with a sense of finality that Lily could not even imagine arguing against.

And just like that, Lily found herself sitting on the patio of a café she had only ever read about.

"So," James began after they had placed their orders, "how do you like the job, Lily?"

"I like it a lot!" she said, honestly. If being around his godmother put James in one of his more tolerable states and she had to spend the next hour or so with him anyway, she wasn't going to do anything that might change it. "I've learned so much already, and it's nothing like what we cover in school."

"How so?" James prodded.

"Oh, well, I know more about how the Ministry works, I know what they're doing to combat," she looked around warily, "the war. I know what's really going on in the real world. The stuff they try to hush up. I know which people it's okay to tell I'm Muggleborn, and who I ought to scream it to." Marlene stifled a laugh and James was absolutely beaming. "It's like I'm part of this world in a way I wasn't before. And it's a bit horrifying but it's also really wonderful."

"You work with a lot of pricks then?" James asked.

"James!" Marlene scolded, trying to hold back a laugh. James shrugged in reply, and Lily burst into laughter.

"Like you wouldn't believe," she said. "I thought the ones in school with us were bad. Not even close."

"Not in my department," Marlene was quick to interject.

"Well no," Lily said. "But I see plenty of it going around outside the department. And I see plenty of it trying to break through."

"Are there really worse pricks than Sni-a-Avery?"

"There's even worse pricks than you," she said. She hoped it was playful, and it seemed to be, because Marlene snorted.

"Now that really is saying something," James replied.

Lily laughed again. "So how have you been, James?"

"Alright. Sirius's come to stay with us so that's been brilliant."

"Your poor mother."

"She loves it."

"Seuli always did want more children," Marlene said.

"And she got stuck with just me."

"Oh I think you gave her quite the handful on your own."

Lily chuckled. "How do you know the Potters, Marlene?"

"Oh Seuli was a great friend of mine in school. And Christopher had always been around where I was. At parties for our parents and then at the Ministry. We went through Auror training together. Until we both got too old to keep on with it, then I went up the ranks in the Department, and he became a very important advisor for Nobby Leach. Eugenia kept him on as well He still does some advising, when asked, but… well—"

"Not asked much these days," James finished for her. "Minchum's a prick. Eugenia gave me sweets."

"The… Minister… for… Magic… gave you sweets?"

"She's a family friend."

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, were you baptized by the pope?"

"Paul and I go way back."

Lily stared at him for a beat, blinked once and started to laugh. Marlene had started about a second before she had and the pair laughed heartily for a few moments. When Lily had calmed herself she asked, "How on earth do you know who the pope is?"

"I read."

Lily laughed again. "Funny, I didn't think The Prophet cared much about the pope."

"Oh, James reads much more than The Prophet. Just like I taught him," Marlene said, her voice budding with pride.

"Oh, I don't even read the Cokeworth Chronicles." She took a sip of her water.

"You ought to!" James said. "There's, er," he moved a hand up to ruffle his hair in the back, "There's a lot of interesting stuff in there."

Lily sat back in her seat and took another sip of water, her eyebrows raised. Before she could ask the question, Marlene did. "Like what, James?"

The first time Marlene had done something like this, Lily had been rather confused, but she was used to it now. The mildly annoyed expression on James's face seemed to indicate that he was as well.

"Well, I learn loads about Muggles that way, way more than in Muggle Studies—but obviously that's not anything you need to learn. But it's got all this stuff about our world in it too, only you wouldn't know that unless you know where to look." Marlene nodded her head. "The Muggles, they notice things. We can't hide everything from them as much as we ought to. So sometimes they find people who've been affected by magic, or they report on things that have happened because of magic, only they don't know it's because of magic. So they say things about freak accidents, or about mysterious figures, or major events having no witnesses or murders where there can't even figure out how the people died."

"Different sources?" Lily asked Marlene. Marlene nodded with a smile.

"And often you'll find more information in the Muggle papers than The Prophet."

Lily thought for a moment, "Because the Muggle papers haven't got any reason to underplay the important parts."

"Exactly," Marlene said. "And you know, the policies the Ministry passes are frequently a direct result of what's happening in the Muggle world."

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

Marlene looked at James. He took the hint and began, "We affect their world just as much as they affect ours. And it's not a bad thing, no matter what some people think. When the Muggles went to war the first time—well, the big war, you know—the minister at the time passed a law forbidding wizards to get involved."

Lily looked at him, brows knit together in confusion and concern.

"Only nobody listened and they got involved anyway. A lot of them tried to help the Muggles however they could. And it wasn't the first time, Evangeline Orpington got involved in the Crimean war."

"Allegedly," Marlene corrected. James rolled his eyes. "And illegally."

"Well of course it's illegal, but since when has that stopped anyone from doing anything?" He turned back toward Lily, "And you know how often the Muggle Ministers have had to resign because of the Minister for Magic?"

"No."

"A lot."

Lily chuckled. "That's fascinating, but I think it's more of an argument against keeping up with the Muggle news. Maybe wizards shouldn't get so involved."

"Well, maybe," James argued, "But it isn't always bad, is it?"

Lily shook her head, thinking of her Granddad and the wizards who had helped in his war. "I suppose not."

"And sometimes it's just—It just happens. It's bound to sometimes, we're sharing a country. And we're not—Muggles and wizards aren't all that separate. Like, before Dumbledore beat Grindewald. The whole world was a mess, magic and muggle. My dad was busy trying to take care of Grindewald, but his house was destroyed by Muggle bombs. And all sorts of Muggle things were ruined by Grindewald and they didn't even know it. They only reason it didn't completely blow our secret out of the water is because of the Muggle war going on."

"So it's important to know about the Muggle world so we know what to blame it on when they get caught in our crossfire?"

"No, shit, sorry. I'm sorry. That wasn't what I meant."

"What did you mean?"

"Well obviously Muggles shouldn't be getting caught in our crossfire in the first place, but the two worlds—or the two parts of the one-Anyway they intersect. And we do things that can't be hidden from the Muggles, and sometimes we do things that the Muggles should know about because it isn't really fair to keep it from them. And it's important to explain it to them—"

"In a way that won't hurt their little Muggle brains?"

"In a way that won't put us in danger."

"Why is it assumed that telling the Muggles will put us in danger?"

"Because a bunch of women were burned to death in the middle ages."

"A bunch of Muggle women," Lily countered. "And if we're so afraid of what they could do to us we have to hide our entire existence when we're not really even in any danger, why aren't we telling the Muggles what they're up against when they are in danger?"

James sat for a moment in stunned silence. "Well," he began, but he could not find words to finish the sentence.

Lily sat back in her chair with a smug smile on her face.

"Alright, Evans. You've got a point." He took a breath. "But I don't think the solution is abandoning the International Statute of Secrecy."

"What is it then?"

"Not putting them in danger."

"Right, because that's feasible."

Marlene watched them argue back and forth, listening to the points they both made, obviously pleased with them.

"Well no, but they can't just—"

"Do the right thing?"

"Well it wouldn't be the right thing. Everything would be so much worse."

"How so?"

"Well surely the Muggles would be outraged. And—" he started speaking before she could, "they should be, but you can't expect the Ministry to deal with all of that right now?"

"Why shouldn't I expect that of my Ministry?"

Marlene beamed at her.

"They can't fight a war on two fronts."

1916

"So we'll attack from the North, while they're still focused on the French in the South?"

"Right." Officer Glover leaned against the trench wall as he spoke.

"So they'll split the forces, and be half as strong on either side?"

He nodded, taking a drag from his cigarette.

"And we'll beat them that way?"

"Just like Napoleon." He dropped the butt to the ground and stomped on it as he spoke.

Phil didn't quite understand the reference, but was thankful for the information, at any rate. Knowing what was happening made it a bit easier to accept. Sometimes. Sometimes, well, sometimes it made it worse.

"When do we leave?"

"Quit your worrying, Evans. We're the support troops. We'll be there for three days and you won't even see a goddamned bullet."

Phil stood in silence.

Glover stared back at him for a moment before rolling his eyes and leaving Phil in the corridor. As soon as Glover moved, Phil snapped back to his senses. Three days, no bullets. He could handle that, if he had to. Three days, no bullets. Three days, no bullets. This was the best news he'd received since they'd told him he'd be going home. Three days, no bullets.

Phil walked back to the hole he stayed in and found that he was already running late for training. He wasn't surprised, he wasn't concerned. He had known it was a risk when he had stopped Glover to talk. And it's not like he'd need the training. Three days, no bullets. He gathered his things and quickly made his way to the field where the other men were standing.

"Evans!" Hooper hollered. "Nice of you to join us!"

1940

"Phil!"

Jack ignored whatever his father said next and continued to the table where his mother had kindly laid out a breakfast for him. Proper breakfast. He wasn't sure he could eat it. He picked up his fork and poked at his sausage.

He could feel his father's eyes boring into him. Jack had rarely seen his father angry; Phil lacked the quick temper that had developed in his son. When Jack had misbehaved as a child, he was punished, then forgiven like nothing. He had never seen such a silent fury like his father had displayed since his arrival.

He had expected the anger, of course. He knew his father would be livid. He had imagined shouting and threats and broken dishes. He had expected his father to finally blow his lid, and shout until he was red faced and his arms were trembling. Instead, he had received only curt, cold interactions.

He would've preferred the shouting.

"Your mother made that for you," his father finally said.

"Phil," his mother pleaded.

Jack looked up from his plate and stared at his father.

"You ought to eat it," Phil continued, "Meat'll be scarce sooner than later."

Jack rose suddenly from the table and stormed out of the kitchen.

"John David!" He heard his father say. He ignored him and made his way out the front door and down the street.

He needed a drink. Or a cig. Or something. Anything really.

He cursed his parents for living so far away from a bloody bus stop. For God's sake his father—

He kicked a tin can left lying in the street and watched as it sailed through the air and landed with a small, bounced and landed once, twice, three times, then rattled down the street. Inspired by the relief it gave him, he stormed furiously through the streets looking for something he could destroy.

He turned down an alleyway and kicked an aluminum rubbish bin. Half the contents spilled to the ground as the bin lay on its side. Jack kicked it again; delighted at the dent he had left. He picked up the bin, spilling the rest of the contents, and threw it as hard as he could against the wall farthest from him. He chuckled, then walked back to the bin, picked it up again, and threw it directly onto the ground. He began to smile as he stomped on it, only to pick it up and throw it down again.

He continued in this manner until a figure appeared in the alley and shouted, "HEY! YOU! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"

Jack looked at the rather large figure now moving toward him. He stopped himself mid throw, dropped the can to the ground and took off as fast as he could in the other direction.

"COME BACK HERE YOU LITTLE SHIT!"

But of course, Jack had no intention of following orders. He was on leave; this was the time he was meant to be free of orders. He kept running, thankful for the training the military had given him, eventually, the owner of the bin stopped following him, but Jack kept running.

He ran until his lungs were on fire, his legs were sore and his feet were completely raw. Then, following his training, he ran some more. Eventually he came to a park and allowed himself to collapse onto the grass. He breathed hard and deep until his lungs didn't hurt anymore, but by then all of the muscles in his legs were rebelling, and Jack had no reason to leave anyway. So he stayed lying on the grass free from the tension this morning had given him.

He was blissful, breathing in the fresh air, occasionally gazing up at the clouds as the passed by, otherwise closing his eyes to rest. He stayed so deeply in his state of contentment that he didn't hear the footsteps and the distinctive sound of a cane hitting pavement.

Jack had no idea his father was approaching until he heard his voice.

"What are you doing, Jack?"

Jack raised his head, groaned and dropped back to the ground. "Trying to take a goddamned nap," he said.

"Don't speak to me that way."

"Fucking sorry," Jack responded.

He expected a tongue lashing or a swift hit with the cane on the bottom of his foot. Instead, his father sighed loudly. "You're a bloody fool, Jack."

At that, Jack sat straight up. "Why? Because I'm trying to make something of my life? Because I don't want to take the advice of a cripple?"

Phil closed his eyes and took a breath, ignoring the dagger Jack had thrown at him. "Because you're throwing your life away and you can't even see it."

"I wouldn't say that fighting for my country is throwing my life away."

"The cripple begs to differ."

Jack stared at him.

"Why'd you do it?" Phil asked.

"Because I wanted to make something of my life," Jack repeated.

"Bullshit," Phil said. "You know better than that. You stay in school, get your education and get a decent job. You don't run off and try to get yourself killed."

"I'm not going to get myself killed. I know how to avoid a bullet."

"It was a shell," Phil said.

Jack stared at him.

"Why didn't you wait until you were done with school? Like I told you."

Jack looked away. "I'm no good at school," he said. "I'm no good. I wouldn't've passed anything anyway—"

"Bullshit."

"And I wanted to get a start on my life. I'm old enough, I know what I want. I can make my own decisions."

"It's a bloody stupid decision."

"What do you care anyway?"

Phil took a breath. "Because you're my son. And you are the only worthwhile thing I've ever done."

Jack stared at him.

"Don't you get it?" Phil said, "Why your mother has been so frantic? Why I'm so angry you joined up? Why we were so upset that you ran off?"

"You wouldn't have let me join."

"No, no I wouldn't have."

"So you're pissed off I didn't listen to you. I get it."

"No, you don't. I'm not angry because you didn't listen. I'm angry because you ran off and put your life on the line without even giving us a warning."

"So?"

Phil took a breath. "So what if you did get killed? Didn't you think about how upset your mother would be? How upset I would be?"

"I thought you'd be proud."

"Proud? Jesus, Mary and Joseph. We would be devastated. Your mum would never recover. Don't you—You are the only thing we have."

Jack stayed silent.