But the kitchen was empty. Mostly empty. The original stove and fridge and dishwasher had all been yanked out, probably sold, leaving rotting holes like pulled teeth. Some of the linoleum had been peeled back, and torn-up strips of burlap were scattered all about. However, there was a leaking mini-fridge on the floor, a dented microwave and a rusted hot plate on the counter, and finally the source of the music Danny had heard earlier: an old Sony boom box.

Also, a police-band scanner and a couple of Motorola handheld radios in a small crate in a corner.

Now that he was here, Danny could finally make out that damn song. It was by Metallica, “The Day That Never Comes,” and that song threw him all the way back to Afghanistan, where he wasn’t chasing Eddy Rabbit anymore, but instead clearing some shitty mud house out in Nuristan Province; batting away flies crawling into his mouth and his eyes, and baking in his Interceptor body armor even in the deepest shadows, waiting for something to explode and someone to die. Always waiting. All the guys had listened to that Metallica song back then . . . back there. It was like their national fucking anthem.

He was eighteen, nineteen years old again, and scared shitless.

His bad eye flickered, threatened to go out.

He realized he was shaking.

He had to get outside. He had to get this place off his skin and out of his head.

He was running full tilt through the kitchen door when the sirens started.

—

EDDY WAS MAKING HIS WAY down to the water.

Danny could see where he’d stumbled along a thin path that had already been cut through the giant cane—which squared with Charity’s story—and maybe thought he could hear him breathing hard, stumbling and cussing up ahead. Danny kept after him, gulping big mouthfuls of the morning air and letting the sunlight strike his face; feeling better after shedding the dark and stink of the trailer, after leaving that ominous music behind. He’d never experienced anything like that before, but knew plenty of others who had. Guys who’d never quite left Afghanistan, friends who still felt like they were forever trapped in one of those mud houses. Like parts of them had been entombed there, and for some that was a certain, terrible truth—all the arms and legs that had never come back to the United States with them. Danny knew how lucky he was, but also knew he hadn’t survived all that shit only to come back home to Texas to get hurt. Not here, not now, not like this. He could just stop, not chase Eddy down into that thick foliage; let him disappear and try to track him down later. It wasn’t like Eddy had anywhere to go or the means to get there.

But he couldn’t, wouldn’t.