“She’s off-grid. We ran the usual searches, but they came up with nothing. No active bank accounts. No social media. We know in the last six months she’s been to Peru, Japan, and Italy. The last passport scan was Spain, so we’re launching a search there. Still, we don’t know where she is.” Hernandez, the private investigator, sounded awed. He was retired JAG Corps and a family friend, so it took a lot to impress him. But Dani was impressive.

“Then why did I hire you for a skip trace?” I snarled into the phone, pent-up irritation making me forget my manners. “Fucking do your job. This is so frustrating.”

“I know, Trent. I’ve never had anyone so slippery. She has a large bank account in the United States that she never touches.”

I knew what that was.

He continued, “We think she’s operating on a cash basis and buys burner phones.”

“Yeah, no shit,” I said. “If she wanted to be found, she would be.” I just fucking wished she’d check her email, but I knew from Degan she only did that once a month or so when she had good Wi-Fi and when she felt like sorting through hundreds of messages.

I’d sent her a generic email asking her to get in touch with me, but she hadn’t responded. The news I had to give her wasn’t what I wanted to put in an email anyway. No, I’d tell her in person. The only honorable way to do it.

I stared at my childhood bedroom ceiling. “What’s the next step?”

“Through my network, I know people. We have men on the ground in Spain right now. She may have been teaching at a language school in Salamanca.”

Putting the phone on speaker, I opened up my laptop and Googled, “Danika Anderson Salamanca.” As always, when I hit enter, my heart leapt that maybe, just maybe this time I’d find her.

Nope.

Nothing.

The hits weren’t her or they were stale as the air in an unused broom closet.

Fuck.

If a world record existed for number of times Googling her name in a week, I definitely held it. But I found nothing but old links.

I wasn’t a man of internet search terms.

Action. I wanted action.

“Just find her, okay?”

She didn’t know what had happened. I’d handled all the paperwork. With my parents listed as next of kin, the army had done its duty. Now it was up to me to do mine.

* * *

Two days later, I leaned against the back of the hard wooden bench.

My Class A’s didn’t fit me anymore, but I hadn’t had time to get alterations done or get a bigger size, and honestly it was the last thing on my mind. I’d gained twenty pounds of muscle since I last wore this jacket, and the fabric stretched across my back, around my biceps, binding me in my place in the church pew. No way could I lift up my arms even if I tried. Sweat soaked my back despite the air conditioning assaulting my face. The black tie choked my throat, but I couldn’t loosen it until this was over.

While this was pretty much the definition of hell, I had to be here for him. To say goodbye to him again.

Although I’d flown home with him and made all the arrangements, and I knew we hadn’t been able to tell her, I still arrived an hour early on the wispy hope that she’d somehow got the message. This was crazy. I knew the army hadn’t delivered the mandatory death notice to her because she was overseas and the army required a stateside address. Instead, it had been given to my parents, freaking out my mom on the sight of two uniformed soldiers walking up her steps within four hours of the news of his death. When my mom saw me come home, I thought she’d never let me go.

I’d scanned the full room when I walked in, but my heart dropped to my shiny black shoes. So many people present, all in black, honoring the local hero. Everyone here except the one person who should be here.

No haphazard mane of wild, blond hair caught my eye in the rows of bowed heads before me.

No Dani.

With a painful sigh, I sat back. I didn’t know why I kept scouring the audience, seeking her tiny body, expecting to see her perched like a delicate house finch about to take flight. It was because she should be here, even if she abhorred tradition.

I sensed the absence of her as strongly as I always felt her presence. Even after all this time. If she were here, I’d know it by that light she gave off. The way she radiated energy. But no, not here.

The woman in front of me turned around and did a double take before she recognized me. It took me a second to identify her, too—my parents’ neighbor. “Hello, Trent. I’m so sorry about Degan.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Carr.”

“It’s such a shame. So young.”

Here was the part where I gulped, my heart heavy. I managed out, “Right.”

“Where’s Danika?”

I shook my head. “We don’t know. Spain, maybe.”

Mrs. Carr gasped. “Oh no! Someone needs to tell her!”

“Yes, I know,” I said in a flat voice. She gave me a pitiful expression, like she wanted to say more, and I prayed to a God I didn’t believe in anymore that she wouldn’t, because I couldn’t say much more than that or I’d lose it. I determinedly stared at the dark blue industrial-grade carpeting, avoiding everyone.

But I still heard the sniffling. All around me, women pulled Kleenex out of their purses. Men pretended not to cry but didn’t breathe either, holding it all in. I winced and rubbed the heel of my palm against my chest.

My mother, sitting between me and my father, reached out to hold my hand. My heel scuffed the floor, and the wooden seat creaked as I shifted and slumped. The service was about to start.

“Dearly beloved,” began the pastor. “We are gathered here to celebrate the life of Degan Christopher Anderson.”

A sob caught in my throat as I heard the words. So final.

I should have saved him.

No. I couldn’t go there. Fuck you, traitorous brain.

It should have been me, not him.

No. Fuck no. My body got cold at the thought. I couldn’t think like that. I needed to carry out his wishes. Give her his letter.

I stretched out my fingers and slid my hands down my thighs. The perfect crease on my dress pants momentarily fascinated me. Anything to avoid breaking down. I didn’t dare move more than I had to. I couldn’t.

“Degan was a brave and honorable soldier, who served our country with pride.”

God, Dani was right. A traditional funeral wasn’t the way to honor Degan. No way would this pastor get his personality right. Degan was remarkable. Exceptional.

This guy probably wouldn’t even mention the Cocoa Puffs.

My eyes focused on the seam of the black suit jacket of the teenager in front of me sitting next to Mrs. Carr. Was that her son? Jeez, he’d grown up. It was so much easier to focus on the back of his neck, staring straight ahead, than it was to listen to the service.

“And now, Sergeant Trent Milner, will give a few words.”

I rose, back straight and shoulders squared, my military training automatically taking over. I strode to the podium and stood behind it, eying the microphone.

The flag-draped coffin lay to my right.

My best friend was in there.

“Degan,” I began, but my voice broke.

Fuck.

Regroup.

Would this ever end?

I began again, “I wish I could tell you all what Degan was really like.” In the crowd, my mom’s eyes locked with mine, shining, but encouraging me to talk. “He was the best friend I ever had. When we were little, we would play UNO, and he had all these crazy house rules. Like if you put a Draw Two down, you could trump it with another Draw Two, so the person had to draw four. But he’d put down a ton of them at a time, so it would end up, like Draw Twenty-Two. No one would ever win, we’d just have to keep drawing cards.”

God, I’m babbling. I’d written down what I wanted to say on a card, but when I pulled it out, it seemed all wrong.

“But the thing was, he really didn’t want to spite you. He just wanted to keep playing. He was the kind of guy who in the mess hall would never let anyone sit by themselves. Kind of annoying, really. But he’d reach out, make sure that you were doing okay. He’d make a triple decker peanut butter sandwich and share it. Anything to get you to know you weren’t alone.” I scanned my index card. I hadn’t said anything I planned. Oh well. “I don’t know what else to say. Degan died so I could live. He’s a real hero.”

Unlike me. I’m no hero.

“But more than that, Degan died so our country could live. We talk about peace and freedom. He really believed in it. He believed in protecting it. He staked his life on it. He believed in being a soldier, in the discipline and sacrifice, but he always did it with a smile. He took joy in serving others. Honestly, the only thing I think he ever did for himself was eat too much cold cereal.”

I got a few chuckles.

“But if you want to know the meaning of a true soldier, one who lived by his code and died by it, you don’t have to look any farther than Degan Anderson.”

I was so grateful I’d already told Degan everything I wanted to tell him on that street in Afghanistan, because my words now weren’t enough.

When the ceremony was over, I approached the coffin of my best friend. Placing my hand on it, I whispered, “It’s okay, buddy. I got her.”

With seven others, I helped carry the coffin out to the hearse. It was surprisingly light. Or maybe I’d gotten stronger.

My parents and I followed the procession to the cemetery and sat in white chairs, while the coffin was readied.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

I startled, sweating, reaching for a gun in my nonexistent holster to react.

Keep it together, Milner. No one’s being shot at. This is just to honor Degan.

Fuck, I’d forgotten about the gun salute. Sweat dripped into my collar.

At the end of the service, I walked up on the wet grass, slightly sinking into the ground because of last night’s sprinklers. Someone handed me the flag, folded, which had been draped on Degan’s coffin. I set my hand on the wood as it was lowered into the ground. Then I turned and hurried out, my heart heavy.

That night I cried myself to sleep.

* * *

The next day, a beam of sunlight sidestepped through the small shower window up high at my parents’ house and smacked me in the face while my mind raced.

Soap bubbles popped on my thigh as hot water streamed down my body. Propping myself against the tiled wall, I grasped the handheld nozzle, and aimed the spray at the top of my head, then my tight shoulders, rinsing off, relieving the tension from my six mile run this morning, but not from my mind.

Working my way down my body, top to bottom, left to right, I scrubbed each part five times. Not four. Not six. Five. In the proper order. That way, my shower would take precisely three and a half minutes, and I could get on with my day.

(Unless I got distracted by thoughts of her, then it took longer.)

Today, no distractions. I needed to do something.

Someone had to tell Danika Anderson that her brother had died.

But I didn’t know where to go from here. She’d been blowing like a fall leaf in the wind for so long now. I knew from Degan that one month she was building schools in Uruguay, then I’d learn she was teaching English in Peru. The less technology, the happier she was. She’d send him a message every month or so, telling him of problems with SIM cards, Wi-Fi, and cell reception. Adding technical difficulties of traveling around the world to her natural slacker attitude about keeping in touch, and I was trapped in a Bermuda Triangle with no communication.

I hustled back to my old room in my towel, dressed, sat down at my old desk, and exhaled.

In boot camp, Degan and I had filled out powers of attorney, medical forms, and all kinds of other important papers, which were now in a file on my desk next to my laptop. We also prepared two letters in case something should happen to us. He wrote his to Dani, and I carried it. I wrote mine to, uh, Dani, and he carried it. They were sealed, with no stamps. No return addresses. Now I had them both. I set them out in front of me.

After we wrote them, and I handed mine to Degan, when he saw who I’d written on the envelope, he’d crowed, “I knew it! Dude, I knew it all along! I knew you had the hots for my sister.”

“Shut it, douche,” I’d said good-naturedly.

But the huge grin on his face turned serious as he held the letter. “God, this sucks. If you die, that’s the only way she’s gonna know that you like her?”

“I’m pretty sure she knows,” I’d said, thinking of the kiss in the pizza parlor.

“I should give you her email. You could message her.”

“Okay. But I’m gonna leave her alone. This is just in case of emergency. She needs to be able to go wherever she’s gonna go. Especially if I’m stuck in BFE for the next four years.”

“True.”

Still, he’d managed to show me her emails and selfies whenever she sent them, and I was copied on some emails to and from her. I took a few pictures with him, mostly in full gear—helmet, sunglasses, everything—for him to send to her. Not sure she could tell which one was me other than the name on my chest, but it did feel like I tried to reach out.

“Need anything, Trent?” my mom called, pulling me back to the present.

“No, thanks,” although that was a goddamn lie. I just didn’t need anything she could give me.

She paused in the doorway. “Son. Are you okay?”

I shook my head. “Not really. I have to tell her, Mom.”

“I know.” Her downcast eyes lifted up to my face. “Those two soldiers gave me the scare of my life when they came up the front walkway. The moment they said the name, Degan Christopher Anderson, I felt this horrible heartbreak, even though I was so grateful it wasn’t you.” She daubed at her eyes. “Do what you need to do. Take the time you need. Let me know how I can help.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

I stretched my jean-clad legs and pulled out my tattered wallet for daily inventory, placing each item carefully on the desktop.

1 - Common Access Card, U.S. Armed Forces

1 - California driver’s license

1 - USAA debit card

1 - USAA credit card

1 - Marie Thrash Therapy business card, unused

2 - Trojan MAGNUM condoms, expired

$73.00 in cash, and

1 - Photograph.

Fingering the photograph, I studied the people in it, focusing on Dani and her wide, blue, kohl-rimmed eyes. Her mess of tangled hair. That smile.

I’d carried that picture for so many years now that the corners had rounded and the paper was starting to separate into layers, so I’d taped up the back. It had been everywhere with me.

I wished I’d already been able to tell her. Then this misery would be over.

Everything went back into my wallet, and my wallet went back in my pocket. I straightened the two letters on my desktop and turned to my computer. Entering her name in my laptop, I hit search and waited for the results. The laptop held me in its spell, a cyber-prison of torture. A digital asshole. I hated searching. I wanted to do something.

I got back a list of results that didn’t help. Places in the world she’d been months or years ago. Not places she was now. Once again, I’d fallen down short. I pulled out a pack of fruit punch Mentos and chewed one while I scrolled.

An email from the VA counselor popped up. Blah blah blah, I needed to inform her of my future plans, blah blah blah.

I contemplated my response. My future plans were to find Dani, tell her that her brother died, and take care of her, keeping her safe for the rest of her life.

Simple.

But that wasn’t what the VA wanted to know. They wanted to know about signs of fucking PTSD and if I was going to counseling.

I had better things to do.

And they wanted to talk about Degan. I didn’t.

Out of habit, I mindlessly clicked on page after page, and came across a new entry. A website in Spanish.

Danika Anderson, instructora de programas del verano, Facultad de traducción, Granada.

And there was her pretty face. The same face as in my photograph. She was teaching a course this summer for anyone who wanted to learn Spanish-to-English translation in southern Spain. Eight weeks. Three days a week. Two hours a day. I checked out the metadata. Updated yesterday.

You didn’t have to be a college student, although a lot of students took the class. You didn’t even have to be good in either language.

Two months in Spain.

Two months being in the same room as Dani.

My wallet came back out again faster than a soldier headed out on leave. My heart pounded. With a few clicks and my credit card number entered into the internet ether, all of a sudden, I knew what I was doing this summer, but I didn’t know if I’d crush her in the process.