The shuttle dropped Miles off at the end of a dirt road pointing down to his family cabin on Lake Arthur. The driver refused to go any farther because of the narrow space between the trees and how large the vehicle was, so Miles agreed to walk the rest.

With a nod to Tobin and a promise to see him tomorrow, Miles slung his bag over his shoulder and stepped out onto the dirt road, which had mostly been formed from years of trampling and tire grooves.

It took Miles about twenty minutes of walking before he spotted the familiar home through the trees. It was a dark brown, wooden, two-story house with a slanting roof and an always-smoking chimney. Walter loved having the fireplace going, even if it was the end of summer and plenty warm outside.

The front of the house was circled in rows of flower bushes that only paused for the stairs leading to the porch. The wraparound porch had been his mother’s request back when Walter first built the house, and still one of his favorite parts of the whole place. It extended completely around the house, leaving plenty of room for lounge chairs, potted plants, a birdcage, and other eclectic items that had found their way there over the years.

The front of the house boasted two tall windows on either side of the red front door—another request from his mother who inexplicably insisted every home should have a red door.

Miles couldn’t stop the smile from spreading wider on his face as he increased his pace—bounding up the front steps, two at a time. The cool metal of the doorknob in his hand was the only reminder he needed—he was safe, he was home, God bless America.

Eagerly, he swung the door open, tossing his bags to the side of the front room. It didn’t even faze him that the front door was unlocked— Slipwick was a trusting town and the closest neighbor was miles away.

Familiar scents battled for his attention as he inhaled—the cedar walls, the breeze from the lake, the ashes from the fireplace, or the fresh iced tea always ready for visitors.

Miles smiled, the kind of smile that spread deep to his soul. Two years had passed since his last visit home, and it had been over eight years since he’d lived there officially, but it all looked exactly as he remembered each time.

He’d known he missed home, but it hadn’t truly sunk in how deeply he had longed for it until the swelling in his chest brought every memory rushing back into him. Miles closed the front door behind him, heading straight through the house and into the kitchen where a side door led out to the back porch.

The door was wide open with only a screen blocking the way, which Miles knew meant his father was out there like he was most evenings. The back porch connected around to the front, but was much higher off the ground due to the slope down to the lake. It had a great view of the lake, despite a few trees in the way, and had always been his father’s favorite place in the early evening.

Miles walked over to the fridge, pulling it open, and found the homemade iced tea he had been craving. Pouring himself a glass, he tilted the cool liquid to his lips, letting it slide over his tongue—some of the dust from his tours overseas sliding away with it. He finished the entire glass in a few gulps and placed it in the sink, heading for the porch door next.

Miles pushed the screen to the side, spotting his father exactly where he’d predicted. Walter was sitting at the patio table playing solitaire—one of his favorite pastimes.

He paused for a moment, registering the extreme changes in his father’s appearance. Walter had lost at least thirty pounds since Miles had last been home to see him, and looked as if he’d aged twenty years since then. An oxygen tank rested on the wood deck beside him, a tube hooked around his father’s ears and tucked in his nostrils. The quiet whirring sound of the oxygen pushing its way into his father’s nose fit right in with the chattering night life in the surrounding woods.

Miles struggled to fit the image before him with the father who had always exuded vitality. This man was different. This man was frail and breakable—two things Miles had never associated with his father before.

Despite the shock, he did his best to push his worries away, plastering a forced smile on his face and stepping out of the doorway, closing the distance between them.

“Dad!” Miles called out as he approached.

His father’s face lit up as he turned to look at him, smiling ear to ear, and raising his arms in greeting. “Miles, my boy, you’re home! Come give your old man a hug!”

Miles relaxed, glad to see the familiar twinkle still shining through his father’s eyes. “Good to see you, Pops.”

“Me? Look at you.” Walter held him at a distance, hands on both of Miles’s arms as he looked him up and down. “You’re huge! They trained you hard over there, huh? Man, my little boy is long gone, isn’t he? Hiding somewhere under all that scruff.” A nostalgic smile crossed his father’s face.

Miles chuckled, nodding in agreement. He rubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin, which he used to only need to shave once a week, sometimes less, when he’d first joined the service. Now he had a shadow by noon, and stubble by evening—not to mention his body sculpted by the Marines. “Oh yeah, people shooting at you is a proven motivator to get off your ass and run.”

A momentary flash of worry crossed his father’s face, but was replaced quickly with pride. His father was a veteran of the Vietnam War, so Miles knew he’d been equally terrified and honored when his son had joined the military at eighteen.

“We missed you around here, Kydd,” Walter said, using their last name as a nickname just as he always had.

“Missed you too, Dad,” Miles said, patted his father on the back. “How have you been doing? I see they have you on oxygen now…and a wheelchair?”

This was why he’d come home—no reason waiting to address the elephant in the room.

“Lymphoma will do that to you,” Walter confirmed. “All this crap just makes it a little easier on me to get around for what time I have left.”

“Dad—” Miles started.

“It’s okay, Miles,” Walter interrupted, his eyes misting over slightly—a sure sign he was thinking of Miles’s mother, Violet. “I’ve lived a great life and I can’t wait to see your mother again.”

Uncomfortable, Miles looked away. “Don’t talk like that, Pops. People survive cancer—you could be one of those people. Stay positive; fight it.”

“I am being positive,” Walter replied, still smiling. “That doesn’t mean I want to fight it, though. I haven’t seen your mother in twenty-six years—she is still the love of my life, you know.”

“You’ve only told me a million times.” Miles gently squeezed his father’s shoulder, loving hearing about his mother even if it was in this context.

“And when are you going to find your Violet?” Walter didn’t pull any punches, shuffling the deck of cards in front of him.

A laugh slipped out as Miles took the cards from his father and began cutting the deck between the two of them to start a game of war—one of their favorites. “That’s not happening any time soon, Pops.”

“You never know,” Walter said, his brows lifting.

Miles divided the deck into two piles as the screen door slid open behind them and soft footsteps landed on the wood. The air left his lungs in a whoosh and his breathing became staggered as he jumped up, almost knocking the table. He swirled to face whoever was approaching. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, leaving him shaky. His muscles tensed as he pushed himself to his full height, spreading his arms and legs in a solid fighting stance, preparing for an attack.

The young woman standing in front of him let out a shocked gasp as a look of fright overtook her features, her hand flying to her chest.

Then she faded and Miles only saw fire.

Flames that stung his eyes.

The smell of burnt flesh.

Fire.