Lakeside Cottage. Susan Wiggs

put off “someday.” But once he was discharged, his troubles were far from over. In fact, they had only begun.

      “You can’t stay underground forever.”

      “Let’s hope I don’t need to.” JD got out of his truck and paced the parking lot. A family of four crossed in front of him, oblivious to his presence. The woman pushed a stroller while the man carried a small boy on his shoulders. They were laughing, and the boy was clapping his hands.

      JD had seen families do terrible things to each other, and he knew love could turn to a poison as lethal as anthrax. Even so, there was a diehard inside him that could not stop wishing, hoping, yearning to be part of something bigger than himself—a family.

      “You won’t need to stay away that long,” Sam assured him. “Your fifteen minutes of fame are nearly over.”

      “Good.”

      “You’ll start finding discontinued Jordan Donovan Harris action figures for sale on eBay.”

      “Okay, now you’re starting to tick me off.”

      Sam laughed. “Listen, enjoy the summer. Do you need anything?”

      “No, I’m good. In my dreams, I never imagined a place like this existed.”

      “It’s something else, isn’t it?” Sam said. “Listen, quit worrying about the future. Everything’s going to be fine.”

      His change in tone was so subtle that only JD, who knew Sam like a brother, detected it. “All right,” he said, pacing in front of his truck. “What’s going on?”

      “You, um, remember Private Glaser?”

      “Hell, yes.” Glaser was the first casualty he and Sam had treated together in the field. “Why would you.” He stopped pacing and shuffled through his mail, fury snagging in his chest when he opened a large manila envelope and found himself staring at a gossip magazine with a photograph of himself as a young Green Beret medic, years ago in Afghanistan. “What the fuck is this?” he demanded.

      “Ah,” said Sam, “I see you found the latest sleazefest.”

      The black-and-white photograph depicted three young men—JD, a marine he’d dragged in from battle and Sam. “God, Sam,” he asked, his voice grating with disbelief.

      “I figured I should send it. Most of the stuff they publish is pure fiction, but that one you might want to take a look at.”

      Sweat trickled down his temples as he flipped open the issue and scanned the article. The article was illustrated with more photographs and a bunch of hyperbolic pull-out quotes. “This is Glaser’s story, isn’t it?” He scowled at the pictures of Max Glaser, the marine in the front-page photo. The man whose life Sam and JD had saved, long ago in the mountains of Konar Province in Afghanistan. They’d never seen him again after that incident, but apparently being rescued by Jordan Donovan Harris was enough to warrant a lead story.

      “Yo,” said Sam, “you still with me?”

      “I’m here.” JD shook off the memory and set down the magazine. He felt like wiping his hand on his pant leg, shampooing his brain. Taking a deep breath, he focused on the whipped-cream peaks of the mountains visible beyond the Straits. “I thought you just said my fifteen minutes were nearly over.”

      “You know what I think? I think you’re looking at this all wrong. Use it to make things happen, get what you want.”

      Like a mother in rehab? he wondered.

      “Instead of getting freaked out by all the attention, make it work for you,” Sam continued.

      “Now you sound like Maurice Williams,” JD said, scowling as he spotted something from the West Hollywood agent amid the stack of mail. Taking Maurice’s advice had already gotten him more than he’d bargained for. He had signed with him because he’d been promised control over a feature film based on his life and the incident at Walter Reed. Naively, he thought this meant he’d be given discretion over whether or not the film was made. He’d nixed the project, only to discover the production company was going forward anyway.

      “He’s got a point,” Sam said. “Because of what you did, you can make anything happen. Have you seen the bottom line on your foundation?”

      “It’s not ‘my’ foundation.” It was a nonprofit foundation set up in response to unsolicited donations that had inexplicably come pouring in following the incident. One of the positive by-products of his fame had been that the American people, for reasons that often went unstated, felt compelled to send him money. Checks, and even cash, arrived with no explanation, no return address or perhaps a scribbled note: “For basic decency.” “In appreciation.” There was a certain level of discomfort in being given money for doing what anyone would have done under the circumstances. He’d tried sending everything back, but there were too many, a number without any return information. He quickly became overwhelmed by the flood of mail.