If you’re reading this, I’m dead. Soon now, I figure on taking a quick right off a high cliff—although it’s a waste of a good vehicle. Got a diagnosis a while back. Cancer. No surprise after that crap they sprayed on us in ’Nam. The docs say they can’t do shit, and I always said I’d check out when life lost its flavor—that time is now.

The nightmares are getting worse again, too. The PTSD—Jesus, who the fuck thought of such a stupid name—got better when I got you four. Raising you all gave me a mission. Staved it off—mostly. I’m sorry for the times it got the better of me and I scared you.

- - - -

Gabe shook his head. Yeah, Mako had scared the crap out of them off and on. The sarge’d been a Vietnam vet, and some triggers made him crazy. The sound of a chopper, the unexpected smell of diesel. Fireworks with staccato, sharp noises sent him diving for cover, or worse, running into the forest. Days later, he’d return haggard and silent.

But if he didn’t run and was fighting off a flashback, his temper would erupt.

Drill sergeants had cruel tongues.

Being clueless kids, they hadn’t understood, not at first, but Cazador, the smartest with people, had eventually figured out the sarge had PTSD from a war that had occurred before they were even born. Slowly, they’d discovered how to avoid the triggers…and what to do when shit happened anyway.

Gabe rubbed his face and the rough beard he hadn’t bothered to trim. He had his own nightmares of war and death now and a hell of a lot of respect for how well Mako had managed.

The sarge would be the first to understand why Gabe had holed up in the cabin…and would be the first to kick his ass out of it.

But Gabe hadn’t found any reason to leave.

Leaning against a porch post, he inhaled. The crisp green scent of spring smelled like anticipation. It was…annoying.

With his free hand, he massaged his throbbing shoulder. It didn’t hurt too much, considering the amount of work he’d done this week. The injuries were pretty much healed.

His mind, though? Not so much. Like Grayson, the sarge’s psychologist friend, had warned, the isolation had made it worse.

The land was thawing under the spring sun; he wasn’t sure he ever would.

But he’d found some peace, too, out here in Mako’s old cabin. Seemed like he could feel the sarge here now and then. Mako’d loved this place where dense spruce, birch, and cottonwood forest surrounded the cabin on three sides. A slope filled with alders led to the river where the sun sparkled off the last remaining ice along the riverbank. A few chunks still bobbed in the swift-running, turquoise water.