Gail Green walked into the living room of her home. Despite the warmth of its Craftsman design, the rich brown tones of the exposed wood, the natural colors used in the comfortable furnishings, the room held an icy chill. Though they had begun to adapt to sleeping bundled up, it was still a shock every moment of every day that she walked through her home during this most extraordinary Kansas winter, feeling frozen to the bone until the time of day arrived where they didn't feel guilty about starting a fire in the fireplace.

She looked over to the sofa. They had re-positioned it back from the fire, but not to its usual spot. During the day, when there was sun, the couch had become Jake's spot. Like a cat drawn to the only sliver of sunshine, her oldest son had taken to spending his limited rest times cuddled up there under several layered fleece blankets. Gail had offered the heavy woolen blanket with the colors of a Midwest harvest; the blanket that the family had used for the fall hayrides and the winter snow rides, but Jake had declined, explaining that its weight had felt stifling. She worried about whether the comment held some hidden meaning; she wondered if the weight of it reminded him of being stuck under that truck just three days before, or worse, if her presence and motherly concern were beginning to get to her until-just-recently wayward son.

And she also wondered if there was something else that had happened to her son which held memories far worse. Johnston had hinted of something. She hoped that one day Jake would feel that he could talk to her about it as well.

Until that time, she could do her part to keep him warm and healthy and feeling safe.

Once the Marines that were not Marines after all had been run out of town, Eric and Jake had made their way home. That had all happened little more than twelve hours ago. Time seemed to stand still these days. As though their lesson had not been learned by living through these terrible times, they were also moving through these days in just one of two modus operandi: too much to do and not enough resources to do it, or not enough to do, with no place to go, no way to get there, long stretches with nothing to be done but wait for the same cycle to repeat itself the next day. Gail had heard Johnston say more than once that they were lucky there was nothing left in the town because all of the idle time would have encouraged looting. They had seen enough of their friends and neighbors doing that early on to last a lifetime.

Gail had been luckier than most, if you could call it luck: Jake Green had kept her more than busy of late. Between the constant worry and being her son's primary caregiver – April's expertise had been stretched worryingly thin – Gail hardly had time to think of the many dull days she'd experienced since the explosion. Most days were not like yesterday's craziness, with its potential and actual danger and terrible disappointment. They were all so sure they had been delivered their salvation, that the cavalry, just like in the early days of the Kansas territory, had finally come. That they had convinced themselves so readily that their suffering through limited supplies, and even less hope were behind them, said so much about how much they needed something good and decent to happen in their lives. The depression had hit Gail pretty hard last night as she waited on her men to return home.

A close to passed out Jake stumbling up the steps in his brother's arms wiped those thoughts away PDQ. Not until all of her family had settled in for the night did Gail Green finally take a relieved breath, and it was at that moment that she realized that no matter what lay ahead for them, they had each other and that their family would bear whatever dangers that the winds of change brought to them on these storied Kansas plains.

Her oldest son had found his way back to the couch after breakfast; it was not where he had planned to be that morning. He and Johnston had argued over breakfast. Again. This time, Jake had insisted that he would be heading out to check on Heather. Johnston had reminded his son that they were low on fuel and had to choose wisely how they used their limited reserves of it. Jake replied testily that making sure Heather was still safe, especially in light of the events with the 'Marines' the day before, was a wise use but more so, it was the right thing to do.

The rest of the conversation hadn't gone much better, but Jake sleeping on the couch at mid-morning was proof of who had won that argument.

Gail stepped up to the couch and sat down quietly on the ottoman, setting the magazines to the floor beside it. Jake was sleeping soundly. She saw what looked like a notebook or a journal splayed open on his chest, a pen stuck in its binding about two thirds through. A journal. It was surprising to see, though not an unwelcome sight. Her son, though he could when needed wrangle up his anger – Johnston seemed to bring the worst of that out in Gail's first born son – had a tendency to hold things in. He had been a quiet boy – reserved – a trait that Jake had carried with him to adulthood.

Would that she could take a look at what her son was writing, but she knew that she could not. Betraying her children's' trust, especially Jake's now that she had him back, ran counter to everything that made Gail Green the person that she was.

Jake's breathing suddenly changed as she sat watching him sleep. The agitation of a bad dream played itself out. She watched, hoping that it would be short-lived and that he would ease back into sleep. He still wasn't completely recovered from the accident, and probably would need a few more days before his body stopped protesting its abuse at the hands of those marauders who had forced Stanley, Mimi and Jake into the accident. Gail knew that the act of writing alone had to be causing Jake even more hurt as his fingers continued the slow recovery from frostbite.

A grunt from her son brought her more worry. He jerked left, into the back of the sofa. The journal fell to the right, heading for the floor. Gail caught the notebook before it hit the rug and the hardwood floor beneath it, but its binding closed on her in the process with a loud clap. Jake jerked awake, blinking and looking around for the cause of the loud noise. He jumped to a sitting position as the sound reverberated in his sleepy and still slightly drugged mind, sounding ominous enough to finally wake him from his disturbed dream.

"Mom?" he asked.

"It's okay. You were having a dream," she answered in warm and comforting tones.

Jake leaned back and closed his eyes, resting his head on the back of the couch. He shook his head back and forth said, "I can't believe I fell asleep."

"Honey, you're still recovering from a serious accident." She put her head down, steeling herself for what she would say next. "I'm not sure why you insist…" Gail stopped talking as she saw her son's eyes focused on the book in her hands. He looked up into her eyes, reluctant accusation shining from the familiar brown depths.

"You have my journal," Jake said, wincing at the accusatory sound in his voice. Gail handed it over to him.

"It fell. I tried to catch it, but I'm afraid I woke you up," she answered, sad that Jake seemed to think she took it. "I didn't read it, Jake. I wouldn't do that."

Jake looked away uncomfortably and held the notebook to his chest. He looked back at his mother, his eyes full of worry and apology as he watched the sadness and sympathy in his mother's expression. He had seen the sadness many times before; he was grateful to see the sympathy this time, too.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I know that, in here," he said, placing his hand over his heart. "It's up here," he said, tapping on the side of his head with his index finger, "that's messing me up. I…I knew better. I know better…" he started to explain as his way of apology.

"Jake, honey. You don't have to explain and you don't have to apologize. You were having a bad dream. That couldn't have helped…"

"No," Jake said with a bitter snicker, "that definitely didn't help. Those pills aren't helping, either," he added. He said it as part challenge – letting his mother know that he'd had enough of the pills that made him more tired and less lucid than he liked. He couldn't afford to be like that, not right now. He also said it so that his mother would understand that he did trust her; he could see that she needed to know it as much as he needed to feel it, and telling her that he was quitting April's pain pills seemed as good a place to start as any.

"Well, I think you may be a little premature on that decision," Gail said emphatically, as a mother is wont to do when she thinks her child is making a bad choice.

"Well, I don't." They stared each other down, just a little, Green versus Green, but there was took much love and friendship in their mother and son relationship for that to last very long. They laughed together readily once each had eased up on the other. Together.

"You're pretty stubborn for a quiet and reserved boy," Gail said.

"I wonder where he got that from," Johnston Green said as he entered the room.

"Oh, please!" Gail Green said with a hearty, exasperated laugh, looking from her husband to her son once, and then again. "You two were made from the same mold." Johnston and Jake looked at each other with an identical quizzical look. "God help me," Gail said as she stood up and left the room.

"That's always fun, isn't it?" Johnston asked his son with just the right combination of sarcastic levity that Jake had come to expect.

Jake laughed. "It shouldn't be, but it really is."

The End.