Yet, no matter where JJ had gone in the world, part of him had remained here, in Grandma and Grandpa’s backyard, remembering the football games they would play on Thanksgivings. Crouched in whatever mucky foxhole he had happened to be in, he could all but taste the brisk Wisconsin air that turned sweat cold the instant you stopped moving, could see the line of firs that ran the length of the yard to the west, the pink of the sky beyond them as the sun sank below the horizon over the rolling brown field. He could feel the snowflakes that sometimes drifted gently down to melt on the heat of his bare arms.

This is probably a dream, he thought now. Maybe I’ve died, after all. Because now that he was here, he could recollect as tangibly those moments of being more animal than man, reduced from a thinking creature to one surviving on instinct and sensation alone. Stomach hard with hunger, guts roiling with discontent, eyes burning from constant strain, breath polluted, rasping. Alert for predators. Prey.

But there were Grandma and Grandpa, pouring out of the back door, followed by Harry and a beautiful red-haired girl. There at JJ’s side were Mom and Dad and Elissa. And everyone was grinning. Grinning at him. Rushing to him. Lining up to give him hugs, Grandma first. “Oh, JJ, don’t you look grand!” she told him, tears in her eyes. Hugging him again, so tightly he was almost knocked off balance. “Thank God you’re home!” she said. Not dead yet, then, he thought.

I’ve never been gone.

JJ balanced on his crutches in front of the mantel, looking at the high school portrait of his uncle Chase, studying the same mocking smile he’d studied all last night. That face followed him everywhere, always had, asking, Are you good enough to be a hero like me?

His grandmother had told him once that all the Mickelson boys were born heroes, and that JJ was a Mickelson boy and a hero, too.

“But Uncle Chase was the best one, right?” JJ had asked her.

There had been a slight pause as Wilma ruffled his hair. “You’re the best one, JJ,” she had told him, finally.

What a line of crap. Uncle Chase was the one who did it right.

His leg was hurting worse now, especially after the horrible climb up the steps into the house, but he didn’t want to sit down and muss his uniform. He was clammy, sweating; the pain was twisting all the way up his misshapen spine.

Grandma called: Breakfast was ready.