Captured(17)

“Derek? He’s there? At the house?”

“Yes, he is. He’s sitting on the front porch. I haven’t let him inside yet. Should I send him away?”

“No, don’t do that. Let him in. I’ll be right there.” I hang up the phone, grab the boards, and toss them in the back of the truck. The screw gun goes on the passenger seat, and I set off toward the house.

My nerves are on fire.

It’s not until I’m parking the truck and heading up the stairs to the porch that I realize I’ve been outside in the pissing rain for the last hour. I’m soaked to the bone, my cut-off denim shorts and gray T-shirt pasted to my skin. I pull the wet cotton away from my stomach and chest, but as soon as I let go, it clings to my skin again. No point. I’ll just have to face Derek looking like a drowned rat in a nearly see-through shirt.

I pull open the screen door and immediately cross my arms over my chest in an attempt at modesty. Derek is sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a mug of coffee, dressed in civilian clothes. Close-cropped military haircut, clean-shaved jaw. As soon as the door springs creak, he sets the mug down and rises to his feet. I halt in place, shocked at the change in him. He used to be fit, taut and muscular, his BDU T-shirts stretched across a broad chest and around thick biceps. His eyes were kind and full of good humor, although if you looked closely, you could see hints of the hardness of a combat veteran.

The man before me is…not quite gaunt anymore, but its easy to see he’s not far removed from it. He still stands tall and straight, but the bulky muscles are dramatically lessened, and there’s an unconscious hunch to his shoulders. The easy grin is gone, replaced by lips pressed together in a hard, thin line. His eyes are…distant. Haunted.

“Derek?” I step toward him, forgetting modesty, seeing only a man lost in the depths of pain and traumatic horror.

He inhales deeply, his eyes narrowing, blinking quickly. He has something in his hands. An envelope? Dog tags dangle, the end of the chain wrapped around his index and middle fingers.

“Reagan. I know this is a surprise…I should’ve called first, I guess.”

“No, it’s fine.” I shiver, my wet clothes starting to make me cold. “But I need to change real quick. I’ll be right back.”

His eyes touch mine, start to flicker downward, and then move quickly back up. He closes his eyes as if berating himself, then turns away. “Sure, of course.” His fist clenches around the dog tags, and the paper crinkles. I know what he has in his hands: the letter. I just know it.

And I’m not ready. Not ready. I need a minute to compose myself. So I jog up the stairs to my room, strip out of my wet clothes, rinse off in the shower, and dress quickly. I pull my damp blonde hair back in a twist and clip it up. Standing at the top of the stairs, I work up the courage to go back down, to hear what Derek has to say. To finally address the emotions I’ve worked so hard to bury for so long.

When I go down, Ida is scooping mac and cheese into a plastic bowl for Tommy. I pour a cup of coffee.

“Derek? You want to go out on the porch?” Derek is clutching his mug in both hands, as if afraid to let go. He’s staring at Tommy as if seeing a ghost, and I don’t think he heard me. I touch his shoulder. “Derek?”

He starts violently at my touch, jerking so hard his coffee sloshes onto his hands. “Shit!” He sets the mug down, and then glances at Tommy and stutters, “I—I mean, shoot. Shoot.”

“Are you okay?” I reach for him, worried he burned his hands, but he shies away, subtly, but enough that I withdraw.

He grabs the mug again, shrugging. “Yeah. I’m just—yeah. Fine. Sorry about that.”

I gesture at the front door. “Porch?”

He stands up. “Sure.”

I precede him outside onto the porch, take a seat in one of the antique wicker chairs. Derek doesn’t sit down. Instead, he stands on the top step, staring out at the rain-shrouded Texas farmland.

Eventually he speaks, not turning to look at me. “I don’t even know where to start. What to say. I thought about it the whole way here from San Antonio, but…I just—I just don’t even know.” He inhales deeply, his shoulders rising and then falling as he lets the breath out. Turning, he extends his hand, dog tags swinging. “Here. One of the guys from Golf…I thought these were gone. They took ’em, when they captured us. I thought they were gone. Then when the Raiders brought me back—Voss had these. You should have them.”

My hand trembles as I reach out to take the tags, warm from his hand. I stare at them:



BARRETT

T. M. O NEG

234 56 7890

USMC L

CHRISTIAN





I clutch the tags and fight for composure. “Th-thank you, Derek.”

He shakes his head. Then he reaches into the back pocket of his dark blue jeans and withdraws a folded envelope. He turns to face me. His hands shake violently. He clenches one fist, transfers the envelope to his other hand, and clenches it, trying to still the trembling. I stand up, set my mug down on the floor, cross the porch to stand beside Derek.

“Is that…what I think it is?” I ask.

He unfolds it, stares at it rather than meet my eyes. Nods. “I—kept it. He gave it to me. To give to you. If I made it—if I made it back.”