A thunderstorm was gradually rolling in after dinner. It was supposed to get bad later that night, but no one really cared because we'd all be sleeping.

I actually joined everyone in the lounge, but I felt awful about Casey. I was beginning to think that every choice I've made since bringing him here was a mistake, but I also reminded myself of why I ended up begging Hicks to let him stay.

Well, let's be real; I'm not all that healthy, mentally. It could be paranoia that made me think I saw some unsavory people in that gymnasium. Maybe leaving Casey in the gym would've made it easier for the authorities to find his parents. I could've prolonged their efforts to reunite Casey with his family.

I left the lounge and walked down to Ranelli's office. It's late, and he's probably ready to turn in, but he does have a pattern of helping me even when he's in his pajamas and slippers. Hell, I caught him just in time tonight; he was going to head down to his apartment, and after I explained that I needed to talk, he allowed me to follow him into the residential complex, which is reserved for a Marine's family.

The apartments have varying sizes depending on how many people you claim on your paperwork are going to stay. Ranelli had one of the smaller ones because it's just him-and a scarlet macaw. The parrot was sitting on a perch next to the window, preening its feathers. There were a lot of houseplants and psychology textbooks on the shelves. Bits of tealeaves covered the kitchen counter. The whole place just smelled welcoming and inviting, even if it was a little quirky.

"Have a seat wherever you like, Drake," Ranelli said. "What's on your mind?"

"I think I made a big mistake taking Casey in until we can find his parents."

"What makes you say that?"

"He . . . He shut down on me when we were at the mall, and I can't convince him to talk to me about what's wrong, even though I've established with him that he can talk to me about anything."

"Didn't Hicks do something similar to you, and you repeatedly shut down on him before actually opening up?"

"Yeah, but-"

"You're in Hicks's position now, and you're also familiar with the act of shutting down and not wanting to talk to anyone for whatever reason. When you feel like . . . not talking to anyone, what prompts you to tell someone what's wrong?"

"Well, first would be the person has to be someone I trust, that way there's some part of my brain that'll wake up and say, 'Hey, this person cares about you, so, you can tell them what's wrong.' Other than that . . . it really depends on what they say to me. I can read people's faces and voices, so I know if they're genuinely concerned or not. Casey doesn't have that-"

"Children have a tendency to see things that some adults can't. You'd be surprised how much Casey might know about you and the rest of their unit just by observing your behavior in the two days he's been here. Don't assume that he doesn't have any sort of ability to read expressions and pick up certain cues in voices. Anyway, you've told me before about your reasoning for taking Casey in. Not only do you have a bond formed by a simple interaction in the Bahamas, but you listened to your gut instinct."

"My gut was wrong. How the fuck am I supposed to know whether someone's a bad person or not? I'm not supposed to just assume shit, right?"

"I have never encountered a scenario where someone's gut instinct was wrong. It's a supremely mysterious instinct that we don't know much about. Personally, I believe it is the sixth sense. It's the sense of needing to survive. It's your subconscious way of knowing whether something or someone is bad and should be avoided. Plus, your gut instinct is likely more developed than anyone else's here because of your experience in prison. You were placed in a situation where you were uncertain whether or not someone would drag you off and beat you to death. Because of that, you subconsciously honed your gut instinct to tell you whether or not you needed to stay away from a specific person or place. It's not paranoia; it's a gift."

I thought about that for a minute, and then sighed. "I guess I still feel overwhelmed about . . . about the fact that responsibility for him lies on my shoulders. I'm not ready for this."

"You'd be hard-pressed to find anyone who feels ready to be a parent, both biologically and adoptively. Even if you are prepared financially, it's the emotional journey that is completely unpredictable."

"Do you have kids?"

"A son and a daughter. Both started living their lives a long time ago."

"So, you're married?"

"I was." Ranelli glanced toward a picture frame on a shelf above the couch. "She died ten years ago, in a car accident."

"Geez. I'm sorry."

He nodded, not saying another word about it. "Like I said before, Drake, you're not wrong for feeling what you did in the gymnasium. You're frustrated about what's going on with your young friend, but you also know what it's like to shut down. Give it time, and be calm and gentle with Casey. Don't demand to know what's going on. Hicks did that with you, and it didn't work. Be patient."

After a cup of tea, I went down to the living quarters to take a shower and wind down for the night. I could hear people talking and laughing in the lounge down the hall, and a part of me wanted to join them. However, I knew I wasn't in the mood. I wanted to be alone, or with one person.

I went next door to Vasquez's room, finding her freshly showered and putting some of her clean laundry away. "Hey, honey," I said. "Mind if I talk to you for a minute?"

Vasquez glanced at me. "Sure. What do you want?"

"I dunno. I just . . . I want to be alone, but not . . . not completely alone right now."

"This whole crap with Casey bothering you?"

"Yeah."

"That's what you get for thinking you were ready to be a dad."

I sighed. "I never said that. I do care about the kid, but I'm not going to be his dad. I know I'm not ready to . . . to be a father. You're not mad at me, are you?"

"No. I know I'm not ready to be a mother, but . . . I shouldn't be angry toward you or Casey. I should be angry at me."

"Why? You're not ready to be a mom. That's fine right now, because we're not having kids anytime soon. No one's born fully knowing how to be a good parent. You're not Casey's mom. Don't feel obligated to take on that role if you don't feel ready now."

Without looking at me, Vasquez nodded. "Drake, I'm sorry."

"No." I stood up, hugging her. "No, you have nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart." I kissed her. "You will be a good mom someday. I believe you will." I gently rocked her back and forth, hugging her tighter. "I love you."

Turning to face me, Vasquez hugged me as well, putting her head on my chest. A long minute of silence passed by before she whispered, "I love you, too, Drake."

Our little moment was interrupted by a certain somebody yelling from his bedroom, "Were our underclothes washed today? I need new undies, man!"

"Gee, maybe if you actually did laundry 'round here, Hudson, you'd have clean underwear!" Hicks yelled back.

"It's Frost's day, man!"

"You can't pay me enough to touch his fucking dirty underwear!" Frost hollered.

"Somebody's gotta do it!" Hicks replied. "Go check the laundry room."

"Yessir."

I looked down at Vasquez. "Just another regular day."

She sighed. "You know, if we become civilians again, it's going to be really weird not hearing Hudson yelling about something trivial or disgusting every second of the day."

I smirked, and kissed her forehead. "That's what you'll have me for, honey."

It started raining by the time everyone had to be in their rooms. When I heard the click of the hallway lights being turned off, I put my journal in my nightstand, and settled down to get some sleep. Almost instantly, I heard Hudson start snoring (by the way, he did get some clean underwear-turns out Frost never took the day's batch of undergarments out of the dryer). Sighing, I grabbed a remote from my nightstand, and pressed a button to turn the window fan on to circulate the air-and the noise kinda helps me sleep.

There was thunder in the distance. The rain began coming down harder, and I saw a flash of lightning. Gradually, the rain pelted the roof of the base with more force, and the thunder and lightning got closer. Frankly, it didn't bother me at all.

It must've been midnight when the power went out. I opened my eyes to see the fan had shut off, and I heard some Marine engineers cursing in the massive basement beneath us while trying to turn the backup generators on.

I was half-asleep when I heard someone run-limping down the hall, crying. Then my door slid open, and Casey ran in, half-dragging his injured leg behind him. I sat up as he threw himself on the bed. His face was red, blotchy, and wet. Clear fluid ran from his nose, and he was clearly in distress about something. He held onto me, tightly, sobbing, "Don't go. Don't go. It's here. Don't leave."

That spoke volumes to me. His fear of the storm was beyond that of any other child. He was thinking he was in that hurricane again. God, I know that feeling too well.

"I'm not going anywhere." I hugged him, and propped up my pillows behind me so I could sit upright. "You're OK, sport. No one's gonna leave you behind. That's one of our mottos in the Marines-'never leave a comrade behind.'"

Casey's response was another wet sob. I pulled him closer, and ruffled his hair. When thunder crashed, he hugged me tighter, and I covered his head.

"It's not a hurricane, OK? It's just a regular ol' thunderstorm." I had a feeling he wasn't going to be leaving anytime soon, so I pulled a second blanket from the edge of the bed and covered him with it.

I could feel his little heart beating wildly as he pressed himself harder against me. His crying subsided a little, and a few minutes went by before he looked up at me, eyes red and puffy. "I had a bad dream. I was stuck under the shelf, then I wake up and hear the thunder and I wasn't sure where I was and . . . and . . ." He broke off crying again.

I tousled his hair. "It was only a dream. You're safe here. A fucking earthquake couldn't-nuts, now I gotta go put five dollars in the swear jar."

"Don't care, Drake."

"Fine." I fell silent, hoping Casey would cry himself to sleep so I could carry him back to his room. However, it was difficult to move when I rested my head against the pillow I put behind it, because I was comfortable. I mean, it still wasn't good for my neck, but it'd be comfortable for now.

I ended up falling asleep long before Casey did, and he stayed with me the rest of the night. In the morning, I awoke to hear Hicks banging on everyone's doors. When he got to mine, he said, "Drake, where's Casey?"

I didn't respond right away, so Hicks opened the door. He stopped when he saw Casey sleeping against my chest. "Is everything OK?"

"Yeah," I whispered. "I was gonna put him back, but I fell asleep." I gently shook Casey. "Hey, time to wake up, sport."

Casey rubbed his eyes before sitting up. "What time is it?"

"Time to get dressed and come down for breakfast, son," Hicks said, picking up Casey. "That means you, too, Drake."

It took me five minutes to get some clothes on and head down to the mess hall for breakfast. Much to my surprise, Hicks had taken Hudson's request for biscuits and gravy into consideration-and they were actual biscuits, not whole-wheat dinner rolls.

Hudson had three or four biscuits drenched in thick gravy on his tray, and a big cinnamon roll covered in icing was on a napkin next the tray.

"Where did you get that?" I said.

Hudson pointed to a plate in the center of the table. Holy shit, Hicks actually came through, and got us a real breakfast. Bishop was even coming around to put fried eggs on our trays.

"Did we do something good?" I asked.

"No," Hicks said, "I'm doing something nice for Casey, but, you can have some eggs and bacon and sausage, too."

"You didn't have to do this, Hicks," Casey replied. "I think Hudson's gonna enjoy it more than me-or anybody else here for that matter."

Hicks looked over at Hudson. "Um, you need to slow down over there, buddy. Here, give me that-" Hicks pulled away his tray, and used a spatula to scoop out two of Hudson's biscuits.

"Hey!" Hudson gave Hicks a sad look.

"You're supposed to be keeping fit while you're in here," Hicks said. "How many have you eaten?"

"One-and-a-half, man."

"That's it. Finish up your second, and no more."

For the rest of breakfast, I watched Hudson try to sneak sausages and bacon onto his plate when Hicks wasn't looking. I think he knew I was watching him, and that I didn't care enough to tell Hicks.

After breakfast, I trailed Casey back down to the living quarters. "Why don't you spend some time with people today?" I asked.

Casey turned around to face me, looking unsure. He opened his mouth to say something, and then paused. "Drake? Can I . . . ask you something?"

"Sure. Anything you want." I leaned against the wall with my hands in my pockets.

"Didn't you say that when you got . . . PTSD after something scary, you had bad dreams about it?"

I nodded. "You have to have a few other symptoms before we start worrying about you having PTSD, sport. Which reminds me . . . what was going on yesterday?"

"Whaddaya mean?"

"In the mall, when we left the restaurant, you were very quiet. Then you refused to talk to anyone, and you walked out of dinner last night."

Casey looked down at his sneakers, and then back at me. "Got scared, that's all. Thinking 'bout if I'm ever going home or not."

"It's OK to be scared. You know that, right? Being scared isn't an indication of a problem; it's a natural human emotion. You just went through something awful; no one comes out of these things unscathed, mentally or physically. You'll feel a little off, and you'll have bad dreams. For the vast majority of people, those go away after awhile. The dreams and the overall feeling of . . . unease, won't go away if you push everyone out. Trust me, I did that, and it made everything worse. I get it if you feel like no one's gonna understand. Here, in this base, we all understand, and we'll stop whatever we're doing to help you. Don't try to keep it to yourself, it's not going to help."

Casey was quiet for a moment. "You still gonna show me your smartgun?"

"Absolutely." I smiled before leading him down to the armory. "Alright, first off, what's the very first thing to remember when handling any type of firearm?"

"Safety."

"Good. You, of course, are not allowed to touch anything in this room, because almost everything in here is extremely dangerous if you mishandle it. I've been trained, so, I have a pretty good idea of what I'm doing. You're not, so if I catch you touching anything in here, I reserve the right to yell at you. Let's not do that, OK?"

"OK." Casey was looking around, and I could tell he really wanted to touch stuff.

"Before I can get my weapon-" I patted the barrel of my smartgun in its rack, "I have to put my harness on."

"How do you tell yours from Vasquez's?"

"Two things. One, my name is taped on the rack. Two, we've written stuff on our weapons. Mine is really inappropriate, so I'm not going to tell you what it is. Anyway, when you put the harness on, make sure everything is buckled tightly. The last thing you want are things falling off when you're running into the field. Every single clip has to be put together, with no loose pieces."

"Do you like her?"

"Who?"

"Vasquez. You were smiling at her during breakfast."

"That is none of your business. Pay attention to what I'm doing, sport."

"Just saying. Looked like you got a crush on her."

I glared at him. "You haven't even hit puberty yet, so, you don't know anything. Anyway, once my harness is on, I can start handling my smartgun. Can you stand behind me, please?"

"Why?"

"It's safer." I took my weapon from its rack. "We keep this room spotless so dust doesn't build up in any little crevice, but stuff happens so it's good to check. Never, ever, ever dry-fire your weapon. There is tech in place that prevents you from doing that, but sometimes, it might fail, so just don't do it."

After making sure my gun was clean and buildup-free, I turned to face Casey. "Every time you have a weapon, and you're not using it, point it at the ceiling. Real easy to do with a smartgun."

"Is it heavy?"

"Of course it's heavy," I snorted. "You exercise a lot before you can even pick up one when you get to your training. Gotta get used to carrying this around for hours on end. You do get used to it, though."

Casey nodded a little. I led him to the other end of the armory, and opened a door to the firing range.

"Welcome to the firing range. Now, you are going to stay behind the thick plastic wall. Do not go past it. It is up for your safety." I unlocked a large cabinet. "This is where we keep ammunition. These are, indeed, real bullets."

"Cool."

I handed Casey a set of earmuffs. "Put these on. When I go behind the glass, stay here and don't touch anything."

"OK."

I finished loading my smartgun, and headed onto the range itself, closing the clear door behind me. I walked over to the far left side to press a button on the wall to drop new targets. Even though no one else was around, I had to call out, "Range is live! Stand clear!" (No, you can't get away with not doing little steps like that. Apone will find out and he will kick your ass into next Wednesday.)

It didn't take me very long to completely decimate each of the individual targets. The range is meant for your average rifles and handguns, not big-ass machine guns. Then again, Vasquez and I weren't told we couldn't use the range if we wanted to, so . . . oh, well.

Casey was smiling the whole way. When I left the range, he took off the earmuffs and yelled, "That was awesome!"

I gave him a lopsided grin. "Thanks."

"Can you do it again?"

"Not today, sport. Can't be wasting all the ammo."

"Aww."

Question: What do you think would happen if Casey came across Drake's journals?