“I’m in front of your apartment with the baking supplies, but I can’t find a parking space.” I cradle the phone between my jaw and shoulder. Mother’s always doing these things to me. Last minute. Today it’s picking up baking supplies for the bake sale to benefit the homeless shelter.

“Just double park,” she replies. “Bree and I will come out and help.”

“Stay where you are.” I glance up and down the busy street. It’s evening already and my cleaning shift starts in an hour. “Let me find a side street. I don’t like Bree darting out into traffic.”

Has Mother forgotten how unpredictable a four-year-old can be? She can sound logical and reasonable, but she’s only parroting back whatever instructions I give her. Doesn’t matter how many stranger danger classes I enroll her in, she’s always making exceptions.

He’s not a stranger. He told me his name.

I asked if she’s dangerous. She says she’s nice.

But he might be my father.

My stomach curdles at that last one. How can I explain to her that she truly does not have a father? After we returned from the mall, she threw a tantrum when she realized her designated father was not coming home with us.

Thankfully she’d forgotten about him the very next day, but she’s back to sucking her thumb and hugging her fuzzy yellow blanket.

I’m in luck. A car pulls out of a spot a block from my mother’s apartment. I flick on the signal and swoop in. Finally, something goes my way.

A block isn’t too bad, except I have milk, flour, and sugar—heavy stuff. I loop a cloth tote bag over each shoulder and dangle two more bags on my forearms. Schlepping groceries is one of the things I do for my mother since she watches Bree during the evenings I work.

I make it almost a block before I hear a voice. “Need a hand, miss?”

My gaze stops at a broad chest and strong shoulders belonging to none other than Mr. Manning from the mall.

He slides a grin and tips his Giants baseball cap. “We didn’t get off to a good start, I’m afraid.”

“Uh, what are you doing, stalking me?” I shoot him what I hope is a killer glare.

“Actually looking to help a damsel in distress.” He slides one of the bags from my arms. “Let me get those for you.”

Unlike the other day at the mall, he’s clean shaven and his hair’s combed, although curling at the tips.

“I’m good. I can do it myself. Gimme that.” I make a grab for the bag.

He dangles it out of my reach. “Only if you say you’re sorry.”

“Excuse me?” I sneer, almost rolling my eyes.

What planet does he live on? He tried to kidnap my daughter and got off because the police are football fans, and I owe him an apology?

“What I said.” He looks in the bag. “Eggs. I love eggs.”

Oh, I get it. He’s panhandling. He’s still wearing that ratty raincoat and a pair of grimy boots, although his jeans and flannel shirt look clean and pressed.

“Give me the bag or I’ll charge you for robbery.” I grit my teeth, refusing to be softened by the twinkling blue eyes and lopsided grin. He’s playing a game with me, seeing how far he can push before asking for a tip.

“My, my, we’re not being friendly today, are we?” He drawls and walks toward the apartment building. “Which door?”

I drop the other bags and dig for my cell phone. “I’m calling the police if you don’t leave. I don’t care which football team you played for or how much my mother moons about you being a hero who gave up all that money to fight the war on terror.”

A cloud darkens his expression, and his eyebrows draw together. “I’m no hero and the war wasn’t about terror. That’s just the line they fed us sheep.”

“Wh-what do you mean? You’re Tyler Manning, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, that’s my name. And look, I’m sorry about the misunderstanding with your daughter.” He puts the bag on the ground and wipes his fingers through his hair. “I meant you no harm.”

Whoa. Mention of the war seems to have sobered him. The cocky grin is gone. The light-heartedness is replaced by stone, cold seriousness. The sparkle in his eyes has gone flat, and in its place is a hollow emptiness.

“Sure, none taken.” I swallow as he loops the bag over my outstretched arm.

“Good evening, ma’am.” He tucks his hands into his pockets, shrugs, and ambles past me toward the street corner.

“Wait, Mr. Manning,” I yell out. Have I insulted him? Since meeting him, I’ve read every article on the internet about him. The last one was written a few months ago, one of those “whatever happened to” type articles. Apparently, he was discharged after multiple active tours and is now homeless, having given his bonus money and paychecks to Warspring International, a charity for orphans of war.

Tyler’s shoulders heave, and he stops in his tracks.

I leave the bags and scramble to his side. “Look, I don’t mean to be so hostile, but if you had any children, you’d understand why I have to be careful. You never know.”

“I understand, ma’am. When you’ve seen children lose all their relatives, alone in this world, you can’t help but reach out and give a hand.” His mouth attempts a smile, but the lines tightened around his eyes.

Something about the sincerity of those words and the sheer sadness showing in his expression clutches my heart. I take his hand.

“You’re all alone, aren’t you?” My voice comes out choked. “I read about you.”

“Pretty much so. Didn’t have a large family when I deployed, just me and my mom, and well, the articles probably mentioned her dying a few years back, right after I reenlisted.”

We stand in the lengthening shadows of the evening, our eyes locked in a silent understanding. I almost lost my mother to cancer. During her entire treatment plan, I only took a few days off from my relentless banking schedule. I was given a second chance. Tyler wasn’t as fortunate.

His hand is strong and warm, solid, protective. I can see why Bree trusts him—a man like him, a trained killer, yet, gentle with the weak and most helpless.

He gives my fingers a caressing squeeze and darts his eyes at my bags of groceries sprawled on the sidewalk. “I can help you take those up, but if you’d rather not let me know where you live, that’s okay too. You better get the milk and eggs into the refrigerator.”

“Yeah, I better go.” I dig into my purse for my wallet and extract a five. “Here.”

He raises both hands and backs away. “Not asking for a handout, ma’am.”

“Kelly, call me Kelly. I thought I could help. Or at least pay you back for the candy cane.”

“That’s my Christmas gift to Bree. Bye.” He waves and strides off, cutting between two cars and into the street.

“Mama!” Bree’s voice calls from the building entrance. “Nana say we help with gwo-ce-wies.”

Did she see Tyler? I glance over my shoulder, but he’s gone already.

Tyler peered at Kelly, her mother, and Bree from behind the bus stop barrier. They belonged together, had each other: grandmother, mother, daughter.

Was there no man in their lives? What kind of guy would abandon little Bree, a sweet child, so trusting and innocent? He had to be a real chump, an idiot. The thought that he’d had Kelly in his arms, impregnated her, and left her, had Tyler raging at the unknown douchebag. These civilians never appreciated what they had, took family for granted. Left women to fend for themselves with their children. He hadn’t gone to Afghanistan to fight for a delinquent father. He’d fought and sacrificed so women like Kelly would have a better life, a chance to live free from terror, or so he’d been told.

What he wouldn’t give to be the man who’d fathered Bree. If only he could be the guy they’d look up to, he’d protect and cherish them, never let them fear anyone or anything.

But it was too late now. He’d been damaged by the war, a mental case. Despite the media coverage after the mall incident depicting him as a war hero, a humanitarian soldier, he was in reality a homeless bum, a nobody.

His gaze lingered at the gate where Kelly’s fluid figure had disappeared into the courtyard. For a moment, she’d made him feel like a man, a healthy blush coloring her delicate complexion, her honey-brown hair fluttering in the wind—right before she offered him money.

He crushed his fingers around the coins in his pocket. He was no charity case. He didn’t need a roof over his head, especially in a mild climate like San Francisco. Ten years in Afghanistan with extreme temperatures ranging from blistering hot summers with moisture sucking sandstorms to bone-jarring winter freezes taught him to appreciate the temperate, coastal luxury of California.

If you had children, you’d understand. Kelly’s words echoed in his mind. Even without children of his own, he more than understood. Thousands and thousands of hungry eyes, gaping mouths, dried tears on dirt streaked faces, empty hands, bloated bellies of malnutrition. He didn’t need a house. They needed every penny of his benefits check.

Tyler jogged down the staircase to the underground BART station to pick up tips. People arriving from the airport needed his help, as did mothers toting children and groceries.

“Hey, hey, War Hero!” The smooth, musical voice of his buddy, Sawyer, vibrated in the tunnel. “Saw you on the news. That really your kid?”

Tyler clapped Sawyer on the shoulder and bumped his fist. “In another life. How’s busking today?”

Sawyer patted his acoustic guitar. “Made me a pile singing Christmas carols.”

“With your voice? Bet they’re paying you to shut up.”

“Heck, you ought to get a gig going with me. You sing and strut, the chicks go nuts over you, and I collect the tips.”

Tyler waved his friend off. “The only thing important to me are the checks going to the children.”

Sawyer strummed a minor blues chord on his guitar and swung around to block him. “Get over it, bud. What happened happened. Your suffering isn’t going to bring any of them back.”

“Shut it.” Tyler shoved his friend. He didn’t need anyone analyzing him. He wasn’t suffering. He was alive, living in San Francisco with two hands, arms, legs, and feet. A whole man able to work and help others. He crossed to the platform where the lights flashed announcing the arrival of a train in five minutes.

The rumbling in the tunnel blends with the footsteps pounding behind me. A thunderous roar detonates, and the clatter of machine gun fire rattles up above. The flashes from their muzzles burst jagged like lightning. Bullets chew up the concrete, and heat tears through the shrapnel scarred station.

I duck and roll, grabbing for my M4. Where is it? My head’s bare, and I’ve lost my helmet and flak jacket. Fire streaks overhead. I grab for a grenade, anything to lob back at them. Shrieks of metal grinding against metal scream through my head. I take a defensive position behind a pillar, my breath ragged. Where are my guys? I can’t abandon them. I must be the decoy. Draw the fire so they can live. My legs shaking like rubber, I charge the machine gun nest.

Grenades explode all around me, tearing holes and cracking the concrete. One lands next to me, unexploded. I lob it back at the shooters. A metallic rattle echoes behind me. What is it? I unsheathe my K-Bar knife and slash. The enemies scream, hollering. A grenade punches me in the gut, detonating in my face.

My nerves scream, sizzle and zap. Electric sparks and arcs stop my heart. I lose control of my arms, legs, voice. The smell of cordite and blood overcomes me. Am I dead? Where’s Mother? Dad? A white light blinds me and I feel nothing.