Chapter 1
Leo
"Are we they'w yet?" a sleepy, little voice calls out from the back seat of Mara's beat-up, silver Ford Escort.
I glance into the rearview mirror and am met by a pair of dark brown eyes struggling to stay open under their heavy lids. His white sweater is two sizes too small and has ketchup stains from the fast food dinner we shared earlier. There’s yogurt crusted at the corners of his lips. That’s from breakfast.
He’s a really cute kid but in the short time that he’s been in my care, he’s started to look like one of those kids. Y’know—the kids you see streaking through the aisles of Walmart and you immediately start wishing that parents were required to get some sort of certificate to prove their fitness to raise children? Yeah, one of those.
Jeez, I don’t know how to be a caretaker.
A provider? Yes.
A protector? Damn right.
But a caretaker? Shit…With the headspace I’m in, I can hardly take care of myself.
He doesn’t know any better, though. All he knows is that he’s ready to get out of the confines of this damn car. His favorite soccer ball is clenched in one hand as he jams the thumb of his other hand into his mouth.
The thumb sucking. I wonder if that's new. Mara never mentioned it before. At least not that I remember. I'm struck by yet another wave of guilt. There's so much I don't know about my son. There's so much I'll never be able to ask his mother.
How the hell am I supposed to do this?
I’m woefully unprepared. It all happened too fast. One minute, I was out in the jungle sniffing out militant combattants. The next minute, I was back stateside, tugging my bawling toddler along as I dragged him away from the only home he’s ever known. Now, I'm in my car—Mara’s car—with a tiny stranger strapped into his booster seat, driving to a small town I’ve never been to take a job I’m unqualified for with an old friend I haven’t seen in years.
I can't remember the last time I took a breath.
Brenton's high-pitched voice rings out again. "Dad-dy..." he whines.
With a jolt, I snap out of my reverie. "Almost there, buddy," I say as our eyes meet in the mirror.
He lets the ball tumble to the floor. "You alweady said that a long time ago," he admonishes sternly and folds his little arms across his little chest. Well, damn. My tyke is calling me a liar.
My mouth opens and closes wordlessly, not quite sure of the guidelines for negotiating with pint-sized terrorists who live under your roof and call you ‘daddy’. Mara was good at this. She knew how to handle this…I think.
I've tromped through warzones. I've come face to face with some of the world's most ruthless killers. But no one, nothing has ever scared me as much as the snot-faced three-footer sitting in the backseat.
I'm responsible for him. Whether he turns into a devil or a saint is a responsibility stacked squarely on my shoulders and it's terrifying. How am I supposed to shape him into a decent human being when I'm so lost and depressed that I don't know right from left, let alone right from wrong?
"Is Uncle Charlie gonna play soccer with me in the backyard when we get there?" he asks.
"It's pretty late. I think that maybe we should save the soccer for tomorrow. Don't ya think?" I’m not sure that suggestion will go over too well.
"Nooo!" he shrieks histrionically, "No fair!" He tosses his head back and clenches his fists as if I just told him that his health insurance premiums are going up and his shifts are getting cut in half and the electricity is about to get shut off. Tears pour down his sticky cheeks and soap-opera-style sobs rip free from his chest.
Jeez, kid—it’s not that deep!
Anyway, that's how his latest mini-tantrum commences. Oh god, I feel a migraine coming on, tightening right behind my eyes. I try to rationalize with him, telling him that it's too dark, that he's too tired but from what I gather, four year olds don't respond well to logic.
I love the boy but thank god I only have one of him. I wouldn’t be able to handle duplicates.
Eventually, I break down, reaching across the console and opening up the glove box. I dig around—empty potato chip wrappers and gas station receipts falling to the floor—until I find a small stash of gummy bears. With one hand on the wheel, I bite down on the side of the package and tug sharply with my other hand, quickly opening the bag and stretching my peace offering into the back seat. My son hesitates for a second, contemplating my compromise. I squeeze my eyes in relief when he takes it into his tiny hands and his complaining trails off. Soon, his contented little hums are the only sound filling the cabin.
Feeding my kid pounds of sugar and food coloring to shut him up. I'm dad of the year. Where do I claim my prize?
Shit…this is going to be a disaster.
I veer off of the I-90 north and glance up at the highway sign glowing up ahead in the darkness.
Welcome to Copper Heights.
Let’s see how this goes.