him toward with the promise that he’d soon be able to drive again. Of course, his mother had needed some persuasion to relinquish her chauffeuring duties, just as she’d needed time to cut back on some of the other mothering tasks she’d assumed upon Luca’s return home from the hospital.
Getting behind the wheel took effort, but Luca heaved a satisfied sigh as he turned on the ignition. One more step to independence. If only true independence were not so far away. Luca tried not to dwell on the fact that his childhood home was now the only one he had. He had to be grateful for that, knowing so many of his military comrades fared much poorer—physically, mentally and financially. But he also knew that until he was out in the real world again, taking on all the responsibilities that entailed, he could not begin the actual healing process. The physical one was underway and ticking along nicely. As to the emotional and psychological recovery, Luca expected the course to be much bumpier.
One day at a time. That was the mantra that had taken him from the hospital at Kandahar base five months ago to this parking lot in Newark, New Jersey. Heaven only knew how many times a day he’d repeated those words to himself. There was a time, pre-Afghanistan, when he’d have scoffed at such a mantra. In those days, he’d considered himself a doer, someone who didn’t sit by while others worked. Someone who had to lead, who chafed at idleness and loathed indecision. Someone who occasionally had difficulty keeping anger in check. If there was a single thing to be thankful for these past few months, it had to be the chance to say goodbye to that Luca Rossi.
When he pulled up to his mother’s home, Luca saw that she had company. He didn’t recognize the car but noted it had DC license plates. As he walked past it to the front door, he also noticed an army hat on the passenger seat. He paused, considering getting back into his mother’s sedan. He’d made his formal application for discharge a month after his return to the States, and according to the military lawyer who’d been counselling him, it would not be contested. There had been a few overtures and promises of lighter duties, even promotion. All blather, as far as Luca was concerned. He took a deep breath and went inside the house.
“Luca?” his mother called. “We’re in the solarium, darling.”
He went down the hall and through the kitchen, spotted a tray laid out with his mother’s best China tea service and turned into the solarium. A uniformed NCO leaped to his feet, snapping a smart salute.
Luca grinned. “At ease, McDougall—and thank you, but I’m a civvie now.”
“No way, sir. Never.”
Luca ignored the hand extended to him, instead wrapping the younger officer in a bear hug, waiting for the unexpected tears to vanish before releasing the corporal.
“Please, sit,” he said, gesturing to a chair. He propped his cane against the solarium door frame and removed his windbreaker. As he was taking his own seat opposite McDougall, his mother excused herself to get the tea.
“How are you? And the others? What’s happening with the squad? I haven’t heard from anyone in almost a month.”
“I’m on leave and scheduled to head back there in two weeks. Some of the others are home, too, and a few took leave in Germany. A couple have requested medical discharges.” McDougall fell silent.
Luca didn’t need to ask who they were. Kowalski and Murphy, who’d run after Lopez and seen him get blown up. Narrowly escaping that fate, as well.
“How are they doing?”
McDougall bit his lip. “Murphy’s managing. Lost a leg. But Kowalski...they figure he’s got PTSD. Referring him to a psych facility.”
Luca let that sink in, trying hard not to give in to the guilt.
“But the reason I’m here, sir—other than to say hello and pass on greetings from the squad—is to say how sorry I am that Amigo never got to you.”
Luca frowned. Amigo? He drew a blank for a second, then recalled the mangy stray that had adopted him a few weeks before the disaster.
“When the squad finally got back to base,” McDougall went on, “we realized Amigo had followed us the whole way. He was about half a day behind us, we reckoned, and showed up bright and early our first morning. Fortunately, McNaught—you remember him, sir—spotted him before he got shot by one of the Afghan patrols. Took a while to explain Amigo was a pet—the squad mascot, so to speak.”
Luca found himself nodding absently, taking in the information but not quite processing it. His mind kept drifting to the Afghan valley where his life and the lives of his men had been forever altered. When he finally tuned back in, he caught the last line of McDougall’s story.
“Sorry,” he said, “could you repeat that last sentence?”
“We persuaded this woman—a photojournalist I think, en route from Kuwait through Frankfurt—to help transport Amigo stateside, but when she got here your mother—” McDougall swiveled to look toward the kitchen and lowered his voice “—refused to take him, so the woman had to leave with Amigo.”
Luca frowned. “I’m a bit confused. This woman came to the house and was turned away by my mother?”
“Basically.”
“And who was this woman again?”
McDougall fished around in the breast pocket of his uniform jacket to withdraw a slip of paper. “This is her name and address. At least, her current address. She lives in Brooklyn, but she’s staying at her parents’ farm in Ohio.”
Luca’s vision blurred as he read. He didn’t know whether to feel sad or angry. Frustrated, perhaps, that his life had been taken out of his hands by other people. By my own mother. “Kay Westfield? Lima, Ohio?”
“It’s actually Kai, rhymes with ‘sigh.’ I found that out right away. And it’s Lima as in the bean. She was cool, though I could tell she was a bit reluctant to take a dog at first. Came around when I told her the story.”
“Told her the story?”
McDougall straightened at the tone in his captain’s voice. “Not all of it, sir, just enough for her to know the dog was important to you.”
Luca hid the dismay he was feeling. It seemed to him that Afghanistan was never going to go away, and now there was a dog to contend with. Not just any dog, he reminded himself. There’d been something special about the stray from the start. Those tired brown eyes of his had conveyed a war-weariness that Luca had connected with instantly. As much as part of him wished the mutt had stayed in Afghanistan—along with the memory of that day—Luca also knew were it not for Amigo, he might have been killed with Lopez.
“So where is the dog now?”
“Apparently, Westfield took him with her to Ohio. I’m not sure of the details. Some family emergency. She sent me an email when she got there. Said she was sorry, dog could not be safely delivered to your mother—her words, by the way—and left her contact info if we wanted to come and get him. I just got back stateside a week ago and thought, rather than make any plans to fetch the dog, I should talk to you first.” He paused. “See if you want him.”
Luca recognized McDougall was giving him an out. He could leave the situation as it stood, or do something about it. The young man’s expression was as neutral as Luca hoped his own was. Military training had polished that skill. But he also knew the effort McDougall and the others in his squad must have made to ship the dog across the world. Not just the effort, he told himself. The compassion they must have been feeling for Amigo and—especially—for him.
He extracted his wallet from the pocket of his hoodie and tucked the piece of paper inside. “Thank you, Corporal McDougall I appreciate what you and the other men have done for me. It’s quite remarkable, and...well...I intend to follow up. I’ve only got two more weeks of physio. After that, perhaps a road trip to Ohio. Must be nice there in May.”
McDougall’s smile told him he’d made the right decision. “If there’s anything else we can do to help with that,