LITMIR.BIZ

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the cement floor as Duke paced. The edges of Joshua’s nightmare began to sift away like desert sand.

      “I’ll get the door,” Sam said, rising. He glanced at Joshua. “Duff, you stay put. Let’s go, Terell.”

      Terell Roberts—the third man’s name. He stood and stretched. His dark skin shimmered with perspiration.

      Duke tensed, waiting for one of them to open the door. The dog anticipated each movement the men made. He knew this routine.

      Sam flipped on a lamp and Joshua scanned the room, distinguishing a heap of jeans and T-shirts awaiting detergent and a dryer. He noted a clipboard near his cot, the list of activities Sam had planned for the coming day. Joshua recalled his friend handing it to him, explaining what he’d written—basketball practice, homework and tutoring, woodworking, computer skills, ballet lessons, crochet, arts and crafts.

      Hardly the business of their Marine Corps reconnaissance unit.

      He spotted his wallet and keys on a low table. That wallet held U. S. tens, twenties, fifties. More than a month had passed since he’d carried colorful paper afghanis with their detailed etchings of mosques, and handfuls of jingling puls in his uniform pockets. He had rented a civilian car at the airport. He recalled parking the black Cadillac near the building’s front door the evening before.

      This was what they called post-combat disorder. Post-traumatic stress syndrome…

      A fourth round of hammering broke his focus.

      “Persistent booger,” Sam muttered.

      Shaking off his confusion, Joshua got to his feet. “What’s up, Hawke?”

      “Nothing. We get this every night. Homeless folks in search of a bed, a drink, another fix bang on Haven’s door. Some think it says Heaven.”

      “Yeah, and they’re ready.” Terell chuckled ruefully as he stepped into a pair of flip-flops.

      Joshua recalled the old building now. Haven, the sign over the entrance read. This was Sam Hawke’s place, the youth center he and Terell Roberts had opened about a year ago. While deployed together, Sam had told Joshua about playing basketball in college. He had spoken of Terell, the consummate athlete, destined for the history books. Last night, Joshua learned that Terell had spent a few years in the pros before bottoming out. Sam had come to his rescue, and with the last of Terell’s NBA savings, they had started Haven.

      Sam Hawke was loyal, a man who never forgot a friend. Joshua hadn’t been home in Amarillo for a full day before Sam called and invited his friend to St. Louis.

      “Come see what I’ve got cooking, Duff,” Sam had urged. “Your old man is planning to slip those velvet handcuffs around your wrists any day now. Get over here and pay me a visit while you can.”

      The idea of spending time at a youth center in the run-down inner city didn’t appeal to Joshua. He had invested more than enough of himself in the poverty and danger of Afghanistan. His parents’ rambling adobe house with its swimming pool and tennis court looked pretty good. He would enjoy riding out on one of the Arabians his father bred. There would be dinners with friends and family, flying over the spread in the Cessna, heading into town for a…

      Come to think of it, Joshua couldn’t figure out what he’d want to do in Amarillo. The ranch certainly wasn’t going anywhere. His father’s oil business and the executive position could wait, too. With his parents both protesting, he had grabbed his duffel bag and headed back to the airport.

      In St. Louis, he had rented the Cadillac. Then he drove into the city. Though it was late when Joshua arrived at Haven, he, Sam and Terell had stayed up talking for hours. When his head hit the pillow, Joshua had expected to sleep at least until the sun came up. But it seemed the two directors of the youth center were accustomed to regular interruptions of their night’s rest.

      “Armed?” Sam asked Terell as they stood in the half-light of the large room.

      Expecting the men to reach for handguns, Joshua was surprised when Terell picked up a can of pepper spray. Defensive weapon. Strange choice, he thought.

      Sam reached for a box he kept under his bed. He offered it to his friend.

      Gleaming steel knives. Joshua glanced up in confusion. Sam and he were both expert marksmen.

      “We keep a low profile around here,” Sam said with a shrug.

      Fingers closing around a slender stiletto, razor sharp, Joshua considered his friend’s arsenal. A knife was an offensive weapon. That fit with what he knew of Sam Hawke. Highly trained leaders, the men were still very much alike.

      The German shepherd led the way out of the humid room, across a dank landing to a flight of chipped concrete steps.

      “Male,” Terell said as they began the descent.

      “Agreed.” Sam’s voice was husky. “White.”

      “Nah, black. A kid. Scared.”

      Joshua realized this must be a nightly guessing game.

      “Middle-aged,” Sam offered. “Drunk.”

      “Bleeding.”

      “Probably.” Sam picked up a first-aid kit near the stairwell. “Knife wound.”

      “Gunshot.”

      None of it sounded good to Joshua.

      The three men crossed the cavernous gym, the site of Haven’s single basketball court, two foursquare layouts, and just enough room for a gaggle of jump-ropers. Duke huffed with anticipation as he padded ahead. Yet another round of knocking began as they arrived at the front door.

      “Whatcha need?” Terell called.

      “Open the door. Please open.”

      At the pleading voice outside, Sam and Terell looked at each other, blue eyes meeting brown.

      “Illegal alien,” Sam said. “Adult male. Lost.”

      “Bet he got kicked out of his apartment,” Terell muttered, reaching for the bar that secured the door.

      Joshua weighed the stiletto in his palm. Earlier that evening, Sam had told him that African-American kids were a consistent majority at Haven. Latin Americans were part of the mix, too—most poor, persecuted, living on the brink. Unable to obtain visas or achieve refugee status, their parents had spent all they had and risked their lives to enter the U. S. illegally.

      But the composition of the neighborhood had begun to change in recent months. Charitable foundations were resettling refugees by the score in St. Louis. An influx of immigrants from Burma, Somalia, Sudan, Congo, Bosnia and other war-torn countries led to new youngsters stepping timidly through the metal detector at Haven’s front door.

      Long ago, Sam and Terell had decided to take a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy regarding legal documentation, they told Joshua. Haven was about the business of God’s work. And the Lord had laid out a clear mandate for His people to welcome the alien.

      “You ready?” Sam asked, flicking a glance at Joshua.

      He gave a brief nod as he sized up Terell. Tall and massively built, the man held up his slender can of pepper spray while Sam lifted the bar and drew back the bolt.

      At the slide and click of metal against metal, wisps of Joshua’s nightmare floated across his mind. He gritted his teeth. The door swung open.

      Liz Wallace turned a page in her scrapbook and ran a fingertip over the photograph of her parents waving goodbye at St. Louis’s Lambert Airport. They had no clue that within three days, their precious child would be sitting down to a meal of roasted bush rat.

      In fact, they never found out the whole story. You couldn’t just fire off an e-mail that read, Hi Mom and Dad. Ate monkey meat and fried termites for dinner today.

      This was not the kind of thing that would boost their enthusiasm

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