Beckett woke with a start. He was on a cot. In a white-painted cinderblock room. A window. A door. It was hot with just a bit of a breeze. He jumped out of bed to look out when the door opened behind him.

“Stanford, you’re awake.”

Beckett didn’t recognize the man. He wore a lab coat—a doctor?

“Good, we need the room. I’m sending you to speak with Dr. Thomas.” The man turned abruptly and walked out the door.

Beckett ran his hands over his head and glanced around the room. His possessions were piled on the chair in the corner. He picked the bundle up as the man returned, said, “Now,” and left again.

Beckett followed him to the hall.

A woman with a tight helmet of red hair, also wearing a lab coat, stood waiting, a clipboard pressed to her front in folded arms.

Beckett stood awkwardly holding the bundle—a comic book, a quilt, a pair of shoes.

The woman held him in a stern gaze.

Beckett figured he just had to get through this. Figure out what to do next. What was Anna doing? Where was she going?

The woman asked, “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

Beckett gulped. “I’m not sure why I’m here.”

She stared at him longer.

He added, “I’m not even sure where here is.”

“You’re back at base, but because you were belligerent on a helicopter ride, yesterday, you’ve been ordered under watch until we decide what to do with you. The captain called you combative and obstinate and wanted you arrested.”

She narrowed her eyes and looked at him for so long that Beckett wondered if he had missed a question. He couldn’t think of what to say, but, “Oh, yeah.”

Was everything Anna told him a lie? From the moment he met her until she paddled away?

An image slammed into his mind—Anna, paddling away. “I love you Beckett,” and paddling. Away. He clenched his eyes tight.

The woman sighed. She tapped her clipboard. Then checked her watch. “I’ve already spent too much time dealing with your case. You seem fine. Your battalion is at the front, filling sandbags. Next shuttle leaves in...” She checked her watch again. “Three hours, your things are at the front desk.”

“Wait—” Beckett’s sluggish brain had believed this conversation would last longer, but this was it, over, and he hadn’t said anything of importance. “I was under the impression I would be able to pick where I would be stationed. I was going to ask to be transferred.”

“I’ve recommended against your arrest and a court-marshal, Stanford, I think you should quit while you’re ahead.”

“I wanted to go to the settlements—”

She squinted her eyes. “Why on earth? You’re young, strong, we need you on the front lines. We’re entering storm season.” She flipped pages on her clipboard. “In the past you’ve been a volunteer, I’m sure you understand the gravity of...”

Beckett clenched his eyes, that image of Anna, I love you, Beckett, What had she meant? Where was she going?

When he opened his eyes, the woman still watched him, eyes squinted. She sighed again.

She scanned a page. “It says here you have an uncle who passed away while you were on the Outpost—”

“Uncle Johnny?”

“You hadn’t heard? Oh well—my deepest condolences. I’ll give you a five day leave to return to your hometown, of...” Her finger trailed down a form, “Charlesville. Rest, get your mind straight, then meet your battalion in Jameston on the twenty-third.”

“Oh, okay, poor Uncle Johnny. Okay, the twenty—um.”

“Pull it together, Stanford, you have five days, the twenty-third, but you need to be ready to work. Sandbags won’t fill themselves.” She scribbled on a card and shoved it toward him.

“Yes, of course.” What had Anna meant? He shoved the card into his pocket.

The woman looked at him for a second and turned down the hall.

* * *

________________________________________

Beckett’s trunk was in the storage locker where he had left it almost five months ago. It contained a backpack. He shoved his great-great-great-great-grandmother’s quilt in the bottom and filled the rest with clothes, tees and fatigues, the Calvin and Hobbes book, and his boots.

It was hot, not enough breeze coming in at the windows, and he guessed the AC wasn’t working. Or maybe the power was being sanctioned. It was all kind of the same thing. He dressed in his sandals, dark green shorts with cargo pockets, and a light green t-shirt. He put his wallet in his back pocket and happily turned his cycle key over in his fingers. It would be good to ride it again.

Stepping out of the front door of the base’s hospital meant every sense was accosted. Heat was stifling. People were crowded around the front steps. He pushed through to the immense parking lot. It took a while to find his cycle amid the hundreds of tarp-covered cycles, lined up in rows with more crammed in between.

He pulled the tarp off and lovingly ran his finger down the curve of the gas tank. He would need to go to the bank, then gas, and then...

He strapped the pack to the back of the seat, threw a leg over and sat down, turned the key and felt the machine hum to life. Sitting on the hum, he hit the throttle a few times, revving it, leaned on his arms, enjoying the power. Not much in the past five months had seemed familiar, or comfortable, or even logical, but this...was good. He tore out of the parking lot, his back wheel kicking up a giant cloud of dust.