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Back The Unwilling
Chapters (58)
  1. Copyright Notice
  2. Dedication
  3. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  4. Epigraph
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. Epilogue
  55. ALSO BY JOHN HART
  56. Praise
  57. About the Author
  58. Newsletter Sign-up

“What I said.” He scoffed at the words, then looked away for long seconds. “Maybe I did it for a day out with my brother, for a chance to know the only one I have left. Did you ever consider that?”

I shook my head, wordless.

“Or maybe I’m the opposite of Robert,” he continued. “He needed to believe he couldn’t die. Maybe I needed to believe I was still alive, that my heart had room for something more than war and prison and regret. Maybe I had to make that dive.” He made a fist, and tapped me on the chest. “You feel me, little brother? You feel what I’m saying?”

I offered up a solemn nod.

“It’s the same with Vietnam,” he said. “Don’t go because I went, or Robert went. There’s no glory, no honor. You have nothing to prove to anyone but yourself. That mirror can get cloudy at times—you’re eighteen, I get it—but trust me when I tell you that war is no place to prove anything. Be a friend. Love the girl.”

I looked at Chance. I thought of Becky.

He tapped my chest again, and said, “Trust me on this.”

I told him I did trust him, and that I’d think about everything he’d said. When he turned to look across the quarry, I stood beside him, and we could see the forest and the water and the far, pale sun.

“I have to leave, you know.”

“Cops. I get it.”

“The Tyra thing—that’ll go away now. The guns, though?” He shrugged. “There’s only one thing here I’m sad to leave.”

The emotion was real.

I could feel it between us.

“Take this, all right?” He handed me a piece of paper. There was an address there. “Nova Scotia,” he said. “A little house on a black-pebble beach. I won’t be there for a while—a year, at least—but when I get there, I plan to stay. Maybe you’ll come see me sometime. It’s a good place, I think. It belongs to a guy I ran rivers with in the DMZ. His grandparents left it to him, but he has no interest. Stone walls, though. A fireplace. He tells me the ocean is black at sunrise and hazel at lunch, that the surf is loud and the wind is like a woman’s breath.”

“Sounds … poetic.”

“Yeah, well. My friend is a bit of a drinker.” Jason smiled, and it was a good one. “Will you come see me sometime?”

“I will.”

“Is that a promise?”

“It is.”

48