“Do not get out of the truck,” Mr. Greer said, his trembling hand pressing the locks. “Your mother just called 911 and reported that an escaped prisoner is standing on her lawn.”
I stared through the windshield at the house I had pictured in my mind for four long years. White porch. Blue shutters. The same cracked driveway. The same tiny ceramic angel beside the mailbox.
And every curtain inside was tightly closed.
I was still wearing my uniform. Dust from Kuwait was probably still caught in the seams of my boots. My duffel rested on my knees, my discharge papers folded inside my chest pocket, and the welcome-home moment I had imagined a thousand times was nowhere to be found.
