It was nearing nighttime, and the full moon was shining through the open window. Kyle was curled up on her couch, reading her most recent letter from Damien. From what he said, it was sounding as if the horrendous war was finally coming to its end. She leaned back into her sofa. They had expected to return a year and a half ago.

They were still writing letters.

She read each word. It seemed that things were clearing up now, he wrote. The war was dwindling, and rumors of a peace treaty were popular among the camp. He still missed her, and couldn't wait to come home. He hoped things were well with her. She smiled at some of the things he said, and gasped in surprise or horror at others. But it was the last phrase that she continued to meditate on.

I hope that when I return, you will find that I have become a man.

She bent over towards the table in front of her and picked up a pen. Thoughtfully she stared at a blank sheet of paper in front of her, remembering the first time she met him. Then she and begin to write, the only sound being the scratching of pen against paper and the dining room clock ticking away on the wall.

Dearest Damien,

I am happy to hear that you will be home soon. Funny, how I actually miss having you come to our sessions. When I have other patients, I find that many are so much more unpleasant than you were. Can you believe that? How I miss you. I come home from work tired, and I remember that you need a bed and rest much more than I do, and then I worry. I hope that these rumors are true, and that you will be with me again. There are so many things that have happened, and so many things that I wish to tell you, but I can't seem to find the words to write them down. I suppose it will have to wait until you are here. I will be waiting with open arms when you come home. And, Damien?

You were a man to me before you even left.

Love Always,

Kyle

***

Three years. Karen was rinsing off one of the little girls juice cups. It was an old thing; the plastic cover was cracking and coming off in little pieces, floating around in the dishwater. She was nearing the end of the pile of dishes, and the soap bubbles in the sink were diminishing. She rubbed her itching forehead with her arm and continued to wash each dish, submerged in her thoughts. The cup used to belong to Andy. Eighteen years ago, he was a newborn baby. Seven days ago, it was his birthday. She wondered if he even remembered or celebrated it. It had been months since they'd received a letter from him, and it worried her. She told herself it was only her imagination, that Andy was fine, and that he'd be home soon, perhaps when the war was over. But still she couldn't help feeling as if something was wrong. Chucky's recurring nightmares didn't help her suspicions.

But then again, he had many of those, some of which didn't include Andy.

He was drying the dishes beside her quietly, and she knew he was thinking of Andy too. He had a certain wistful expression on his face when he did. Sometimes he told her how he felt. How he wanted Andy home. There were things he could not express, like his guilt. His sorrow. She didn't know how to help him. She didn't even know how to help herself. Some godmother she was turning out to be. She laughed at the thought, and in her mind, she told Elizabeth that maybe she should have picked someone else to watch over her son. Someone better. At least she had Mike. She felt at peace with him.

As far as she knew, that someone for Chucky was only Andy. She knew, somewhere inside, that Chucky would never truly feel alright until that young man came home alive. She was afraid of what would happen if he didn't. She was watching the boy as he ran the dishtowel around the cup. He looked gentle, but she knew what he was capable of. Suppose Andy didn't come home? Would he lose his sanity? Would that be the last straw? And what would she do: how could she help?

Would she be able to help?

She heard the doorbell ring, but she didn't answer it. Maggie was one her way, anyways. She felt the atmosphere stiffen. She glanced over at the boy, who continued drying dishes, but the look on his face gave it away. They were both wondering if it was him. If he had come home. It was a man's voice, she now realized. That's why they were both hoping like this. She let the plate she was scrubbing slip back under the dirty water and, drying her hands, went to the door, the boy walking slowly behind her. Maggie was already talking. Karen's heart sped up, then dropped. It wasn't Andy.

It was another boy from the army. He was lanky, and he looked worn and tired. But his eyes were sad and afraid. He had the look of the bearer of ill news. She moved forward to join Maggie to hear what he was saying, but she noticed that Chucky stayed behind. He was frozen stiff with eyes wide.

"Karen." Maggie was holding her arm. Karen felt her mouth go dry. She felt like she was in a nightmare. Perhaps she would wake up. "Who are you?" she asked slowly, softly. Like she was dead. "I'm... um… I'm Howard Whitehurst ma'am," he stuttered. He opened his mouth to speak again, but she beat him to it. "Where's Andy?" she asked. "Do you know him? Andy Barclay? He's my son. He's in the army, like you..." She realized that she was gripping Maggie's hand. The boy wrung his hands nervously. He was fidgeting. "Yes, ma'am. I knew... I know Andy," he corrected himself quickly. But Karen had caught on. "Where is he?" she asked again. "Where is my son?"

Whitehurst looked down, and his voice was shaking when he spoke. "Mrs. Barclay... I'm so sorry... I wish I didn't have to tell you this... but, Andy... he's..." he stopped, and cleared his throat. Karen felt her breath catch in her chest. "What happened to him," she whispered. Fear was rising in her voice. "He's... he's gone..." he said quietly. "What do you mean, he's gone?" Maggie asked. Karen just shrank. Her hands were shaking. "We- Andy and I and two others- we were scoping out something suspicious behind enemy lines," he began. "I... we tried to stop him, but he went on ahead. There was an explosion..." his eyes were watering. "So he's...?" Maggie started, but Whitehurst shook his head. "He's not confirmed dead, ma'am," he said. "His body wasn't found. But if it wasn't for him, we could have all been dead."

Karen laid her head on Maggie's shoulder. "My son... my sweet Andy... why..." she choked. Maggie glanced back at the boy in the hall, but said nothing. His face was blank and unreadable, but his hands were clinging to the old dishtowel. The soldier was standing awkwardly. "I... I'm so sorry..." he said again. "I hope he's found. I do. He was- is- a brave soul. He saved our lives, he did..."

Maggie's gaze remained on Charles. "What?" he finally snapped, unusual for his current behavior. "Why are you looking at me? Like I care! I knew this would happen! I don't care. I don't care about Andy. I'm glad he's missing, and I hope he's dead!" Whirling around, he stomped up the stairs, the dish towel left on the floor. One of the little girls came running out of the room, shouting if that was Andy home. Karen was silent, except for the sobs. Maggie looked at the surprised soldier. "He doesn't mean that..." she said. But she wondered. A door slammed shut somewhere.

"Do you need to stay for the night?" she asked him. "We have plenty of room." He shook his head. "No. Thank you kindly, ma'am, but my mother's waiting for me at home. I'm so sorry, again." He tipped his hat, and turned slowly from them, tears in his eyes. The women watched him walk toward the vehicle where the driver was waiting. They watched the door shut and it drive off, down the road, away from them, dragging the hopes they had had away with it.

Maggie shut the door after a while. Karen glanced up the stairs. "He probably just needs time," Maggie said quietly. Karen nodded, hoping she was right, but her fears were now gnawing at her, and she wondered what the boy was doing now. She wondered if chaos would follow. Either way, it would be a long night.

***

The drive was silent. "Do I turn here?" Shelton asked quietly. Whitehurst only nodded. The only noise was the engine as the vehicle went up the street towards the young man's home. Shelton waited a few more noiseless seconds before clearing his throat and speaking again. "It'll be nice to see you family again, huh?" he asked. Again, the boy only nodded. His eyes were brimmed with tears, and Shelton could see him blink furiously as he tried not to cry. Shelton turned his eyes back on the road, but his mind was wandering. He felt it was his fault. That this was all his fault. He should have been able to save Andy. To find him. He had owed that to Andy. He was frustrated, and hurt, and he was having a hard time keeping the lump down in his chest instead of crawling up his throat.

Whitehurst finally spoke up when they reached his house. "Here," he said. Shelton slowed and stopped, changing the gears to park. Whitehurst unbuckled himself. "Thank you," he said quietly. He opened the door and stepped out. Shelton watched him. Watched his small frame, which seemed to have shrunk since their stop at Barclay's house. Perhaps he should have gone with him to tell the news. It was his fault. He got out of the vehicle. Ran after Whitehurst. "Wait!" he called. The boy turned. "Did I forget something?" he was asking. Shelton didn't reply. He embraced him tightly. Whitehurst began to cry. "I hated having to tell them that," he sobbed. "You should have seen their faces, Shelton, they were torn apart..." his hands were curling up into small fists against his chest."I'm sorry, Howard," he replied hoarsely. It was the first time he'd called the boy by his first name. Like they were friends.

He supposed they were, after all they'd gone through.

"Do you want me to come with you?" he asked after a while. Howard looked up. and sniffed. "No," he said hastily, wiping his eyes. "I'm... I'm sorry for all of that. I'm alright now." At Shelton's hesitation, he stood straight and put his hands to his sides. "I am. Really. Thank you." He turned towards his front steps. Shelton put a hand on his shoulder. "Howard," he said. The boy looked back at him. "Please. If you want... we can always... you know. I'm here." Howard nodded. He hugged the brawny man around the neck. "You're not so bad, Brett," he whispered in his ear. Then he went into the house.

Shelton watched him. He slowly walked back to his car. He was going home, but he felt empty. Now he knew what it was all about. War. It wasn't all glory and fame. It was terrible. For the life of him, he wished that the thing was never invented. He looked at the rearview mirror. There was a car following him. It had been there near Whitehurst's house. Strange. Shrugging it off, he glanced down at the gas meter, which was almost empty. He'd have to pull in at a gas station soon.

Was it strange that he was here now, worrying about gas? When a moment ago, he was worried about life?

There was a Shell up ahead. He pulled in, the brakes squeaking as he stopped against one of the pumps. He had already plugged in the pump when he heard a knock on the car. He looked up. "Quanisha," he said. He didn't know what else to say. Why was she here? The last time he'd spoken to her, she had blown him off. She cocked her head slowly. "I saw what you did back there," she said. He knew what she was talking about. That car in the neighborhood was hers. "Oh, I... he was just... I was just helping..." he said, feeling sheepish, but he didn't know why. She was smiling. "That was real nice of you, Brett," she said. "The nicest thing I've ever seen you do." He grinned sadly. "Isn't that terrible?" he asked. "Nicest thing I've done... only nice thing I've done..." he brushed at his stinging eyes, and tried to give a small laugh. "No wonder you hate my guts."

Quanisha waited until he finished filling the tank. Then she put her hand on his face. "I never hated you Brett," she said softly, tears forming on her eyes. He turned to her, waiting for her to speak, hanging on her every word. "I was just waiting for you to realize why..." He put his arms around her. They drew close. Their noses touched.

Then they locked lips. It was something they'd both waited to do for a long time.

***

Maggie had told Karen not to worry. To go to bed. Sleep. Mike was coming home from work soon. She could tell him when he got home. Karen had resisted, but Maggie insisted. "Sometimes just being alone to sort it out helps," she told her. Then she sent her friend to her room, assuring her she would take care of things.

By things, she meant Charles.

She had waited for him to come out. But he hadn't. She had waited for a sound. There had been none. She was beginning to feel a prickling worry. She was pacing the hallway, debating on what to do. She would reach toward the door knob, then pull back. Like Karen, she remembered what he was capable of. His outburst of anger frightened her. What did that mean? Was he teetering towards insanity? It was too quiet in there. Bracing herself, she turned the knob and pushed the door open.

"Stop! Don't you dare come any closer!" Maggie froze. The boy was standing, a scowl deeply embedded into his forehead. He was holding a gun- where did he get that?- in his hands. "If you come towards me, I will kill you." His voice sounded like he meant it. But his eyes were telling on him. Telling different stories. "Chucky," Maggie began. "You put that gun down. Right now. I mean it. Now." She took a step forward, and he aimed it at her. "I'll shoot!" he protested. "You promised, Chucky," she continued calmly. "You said if I let you back in, I wouldn't be sorry. Remember? Do as I say. Put it down." She stepped forward again. He put his finger on the trigger. "I will! I'm going to shoot you. Go away!" he started screaming. "Go!" Maggie jumped to his side and grabbed his hand, wrenching the gun away. It spun on the floor, water leaking out.

A water gun. Of course. She should have seen it wasn't a real one. She held him tightly. "What are you doing? Scaring me like that! Karen is trying to sleep, and you're little drama here will wake her up!" He struggled against her. "Look at me," she said, holding his face up. His face was twisting into different emotions. "Leave me alone," he said again. "Go away…" She held onto him tighter still, keeping him there, even as he squirmed, until he broke down and cried. "This is all my fault…" he said, small fists tucked into his eyes. "Even without trying, I send someone to their death…" he said more incomprehensible words, things Maggie couldn't understand. "This isn't your fault, Chucky," she said quietly, holding him. "We don't even know if he's dead."

"Don't act like you don't know," he said bitterly. "He is. There's no way he is alive. They would have found him. He's dead. It's the way it has to be. Because of me." Maggie shook her head. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Because," he answered. "Because. All my life, I've taken other people's loved ones away. It's only fair that I lose someone I love too…" he wiped his eyes. "It's just the way it has to be." Maggie looked down at him. "You listen to me, Charles Lee Ray," she said seriously. "You of all people should know the world does not revolve around you. Maybe because Karen deserves it, he's alive. Maybe because you've come back to us and you've repented, he'll be alive for you." He was watching her. There were tears still on his face, but he was only sniffling now. "You really think so?" he asked hopefully. "You think maybe he'll come back?"

Maggie shrugged. "I'll be truthful with you Chucky, I don't know," she said softly. "But we can hope. And we can live like he will. If he comes back, we want to be waiting for him don't we?" He nodded and wiped the stray tears away. "I hope he comes back," he said longingly as he leaned against her. "I want to make it up to him for everything I've done."

I want to tell him everything I've never told him.

I want to tell him I love him…