LITMIR.BIZ

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routine. He worked hard to stay fit. Prosthetics were expensive.

      A residual limb could change over the course of a lifetime. It was important for him to maintain his weight to within five pounds. And to stay active to keep his thigh muscles—his stump—from atrophying.

      Outside the gym Bruce zipped up his sweat jacket and cut through the parking lot.

      He didn’t own a car—he’d sold it predeployment.

      Afterward he hadn’t seen the point of owning one until he was back on his feet. Then once he was back on his feet his sole purpose had been to redeploy, so again, what was the point? In San Diego he’d had plenty of buddies when he wanted to hitch a ride, and here he had family and the use of two government vehicles—a nondescript sedan and a pimped-out Hummer.

      So even though there was a chill to the night air, he preferred to walk. Because it was good exercise. And because he could. Walking was something he’d never take for granted again.

      On his way home he grabbed a sandwich from the Spicy Pickle across from the recruiting station. He’d locked up as instructed. The storefront was dark—not that he’d expected Mitzi to be there at this hour, just that he wondered where she was spending her nights these days.

      Had she moved back home with her father? Found a place of her own? There were several new apartment complexes in the vicinity. Was she living in one of them?

      Or was she spending her nights with Estrada?

      At this very moment Army/Navy could be snuggled up on the couch, fighting over the remote and discussing plans to move in together. Maybe they were already living together.

      At the end of the block Bruce cut through the alley. It was darker and suited his mood. Henry was there digging through a trash can behind an Italian restaurant.

      “Thought she told you to quit Dumpster diving.”

      “A man’s gotta eat.”

      “Ever heard of a soup kitchen?”

      The old-timer made a sour face. “They make me pray for my supper. Out here I don’t have to pretend to be grateful to nobody. ’Sides—” he dug out a half-eaten piece of crusty garlic bread and took a bite “—food’s better.” He offered Bruce a piece.

      Bruce shook his head. Although he’d scavenged for meals out of trash cans in BUD/S training, he’d never had to put that training to the test. And hoped he never would.

      “Here,” he said without thinking. He opened his Spicy Pickle bag and dug out his sandwich, offering half of his gobbler panini to Henry along with a napkin.

      The old-timer looked at him suspiciously. “You’re not going to make me pray?”

      “No,” Bruce said. “Haven’t been doing a lot of that myself lately.”

      Henry snorted, but took the offering. Bruce sat on an upturned dented metal trash can and bit into the turkey-and-feta sandwich. “How’d it go at the VA?” he asked.

      “Could ask you the same thing,” Henry countered.

      It was Bruce’s turn to snort.

      “Sounds about right,” Henry said. “What the hell kind of cheese is this?” He spat out his first bite. Then he opened his sandwich and picked off the cheese before taking a second. “Can I get that pickle from you?”

      Ol’ Henry sure wasn’t shy about asking for what he wanted. Or, for that matter, making it clear when he didn’t want something. Bruce gave up the pickle and the chips, then finished off his half of the panini.

      Feta wasn’t his favorite cheese, either. A little salty for his taste. After brushing off his crumbs, Bruce crumpled the empty sack and tossed it, for a three-point shot, into the Dumpster across the alley.

      “Night,” he said. Somehow good night didn’t seem appropriate to the situation. He didn’t ask if Henry had a place to stay. He was afraid he knew the answer, and asking the question would somehow make him responsible. If the old man didn’t have enough sense to get in out of the cold, that was his problem. “You’re going to be all right tonight? Got enough blankets?”

      Damn it. He really hadn’t meant to ask.

      “Got everything I need,” Henry said, letting him off the hook.

      “Good,” Bruce said, then got the hell out of there before Henry could think of something he really needed. Like a roof over his head.

      You and me, we ain’t so different.

      Henry was right, of course. Bruce didn’t own a car. Or a home. Or have someone to share his life with. He’d pushed her away for this chance to get back to his unit.

      His best friend, his half brother and his leg had been taken from him. All his buddies were in and around San Diego, or deployed overseas.

      He had a desk job he couldn’t stand after one day. And the recon job he loved was still out of reach. At least until he passed the obstacle course. Soon.

      Meanwhile, he did have the one thing Henry didn’t have. Family.

      The house was empty when he got there.

      He found a sticky note tacked to the refrigerator door—“7:00 p.m.”

      That could have meant almost anything. But in the Calhoun household it meant there was a basketball game tonight. Why hadn’t his mother mentioned it at breakfast? Why hadn’t Keith said something this afternoon?

      He more or less knew the answer to that one.

      It was a quarter to seven now. He didn’t have time to shower or change if he wanted to make the first quarter. He looked down at his sweats. No big deal.

      Pocketing the house keys, he walked the few blocks to Englewood High School. The parking lot was near capacity and he was glad he wasn’t trolling for a space. Light spilled from the building. Every time the doors opened he could hear the band pumping up the crowd.

      Once inside, he found the sound almost deafening.

      The halls outside the gym smelled of buttered popcorn and were lined with tables of blue-and-white team T-shirts with EHS printed on them. Both were being sold to raise money for the team. He bought a bag of the popcorn and entered the gym.

      The Englewood Pirates bleachers were full.

      He didn’t bother searching for his family. They’d find each other eventually. Instead he made his way to the nearest available seat. Which happened to be fifteen frustrating rows up in the opposing team’s territory—The Alameda Pirates. Both teams were Pirates.

      This was the rivalry of the year—the battle for Pirates’ pride.

      At least he didn’t stand out as the only Pirates fan sitting on the wrong side. He wore nondescript gray sweats and there was plenty of blue and white filling in around him—both teams’ colors were blue and white.

      He caught Keith’s attention from the bench, and they nodded to each other. Home team was wearing white tonight. His brother was wearing his old number—twelve. Keith turned away from him toward the home team bleachers. Bruce looked to see what had captured his brother’s attention and picked out Kelly in her band uniform, second row from the top. She made a cute drummer. Her long dark hair and light-colored eyes reminded him of someone he’d thought was pretty cute back in high school.

      Now he knew that someone was smokin’ hot.

      Scanning the crowd to the left of the band, about halfway down, he found his mother. Eva and John were going over the program of players, which Bruce had forgotten to grab.

      Farther down on the right, Lucky sat holding Chance while leaning over Cait to talk to the boys on the bench. Bruce didn’t see the coach. Or Mitzi. But her father was sitting behind the team, near Bruce’s older brother and sister-in-law. He watched as they exchanged a few words.

      Cait spotted him

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