Home.

December of 1992.

Miami, Florida.

Coming home is never easy for spies. We become someone else when we go away. Our mothers and fathers never understand how quickly it happens. We might have to be someone different every month, every week, every day, every hour. We trade masks and kill and plot and juggle identities in our minds. We tuck our true selves away – we hate them and they hate us. We try to be someone different, and often fail.

It was a particularly hard year for me. I was still having nightmares about what I had done in El Salvador – and even before that, in the rolling sands of the desert. It barely mattered to me that it was almost Christmas, but for some reason it meant the world to my mother.

She begged me to come home.

I felt strange in my old house, like a little boy revisiting a toy that had seemed so much bigger when he was small. I had been gone for eight years, but it felt like yesterday that I asked my mother to sign my permission form to join the army. It felt like yesterday that I had tried to help the Reyes family, and failed them miserably.

Home was where many of my weakest moments lived. It was where my dad had shoved me into a corner and stared into my terrified eyes. It was where he chased me around the living room with his belt in his hand. It was where my mother screamed and cried, and I could not help her. It was where Nathan still lived – it was where I had left him.

I walked into this mix of emotions, and before both feet where in the door, my mother squealed from across the room. She rushed me, embraced me, and gave me a hearty shake.

"Oh, my boy! Look at my boy!" she cried.

I rolled my eyes. Hard. "Ma, come on."

"Oh, I just can't help myself." She pulled away and cupped my face with both hands, grinning, sighing contentedly. "I'm so glad you could make it. Oh, my baby boy."

For a moment, the happiness on her face faltered.

Could she see through my façade?

She said, "You look exhausted."

"Jetlag," I said.

"Do you need to lie down for a little while? I have dinner almost ready."

"No, no. I'm fine. I'm starving, actually."

"Come on, then." She grabbed my hand and led me through the living room, saying nothing and making no indication toward my father, who sat in the recliner facing the TV.

He didn't look up.

I sat at the kitchen table, dodging questions about where I had been and what I had been doing. I was a pro at it. Mom didn't seem to notice. She was just happy to be talking with me. She gave me updates on everyone in the neighborhood – who had moved, who was getting married, who had popped out a few kids, and who had died. She told me, in a quieter voice, that my dad had gotten himself a steady job and he was doing a lot better. Her tone was defensive.

She could see the doubt on my face.

She moved on to Nate just as quickly, speaking of him in a reverent tone. He was nineteen and graduating high school – after one failed attempt – and she said he had a full ride to college because of how good his grades were. I doubted that. Last time I saw him, he stole my credit card and spent eight hundred dollars on lottery tickets before I found him driving his very noticeable lime green car. He was not known for his book smarts or his street smarts.

"Oh, but he'll be home later. He can tell you all about it."

"Can't wait," I said, eagerly accepting the plate full of food she set in front of me. I had not been eating very well this past week. It was plane ride after plane ride, first heading from El Salvador to DC to report to Card – and days of discussing the mission – and then a flight down to Florida.

It didn't even matter that the casserole was burnt.

I was halfway through my meal when my father strolled into the kitchen. He leaned against the counter and stared at me, his lip curled.

"Hey, boy," he finally said, in a tone that made me tense.

I controlled myself, because my mom looked so hopeful, "Hey, Dad."

He snorted, leaning into the fridge to get himself a beer. When he turned back, he said, "I guess we ought to feel lucky you ever show your face around here."

He was trying to get a rise out of me.

I just shrugged, "I travel a lot."

"Right, right. What was your title again?"

Every spy has a cover that seems logical according to the life they used to live. I was a soldier, and so my cover is sprinkled with old truths.

"Army Ranger," I responded.

"They're just lettin' anybody in these days," he muttered.

Dad had never even thought of joining the military. He was weak of mind and body. His habits, his temper, would never fit with the things I had done. His opinion of me shouldn't matter, but it fed the flame of hatred inside of me. I was stronger than him now. I was bigger than him now. I could break his arm. I could break his neck.

But my mom wanted this. She wanted us to be together for some reason.

I stood up, shoveling in a few more bites, "I'm gonna get some air. Be right back, Ma."

"Okay, honey." She looked disappointed.

I went out the back door, passing my father carefully, watching him like I would a venomous snake. He watched me, too, satisfied that he had annoyed me.

Nate was milling around outside the house.

He saw me and smiled, dropping his backpack and wrapping his arms around me in a big bear hug. He was lankier now, with long, untrimmed hair, but he still had those dark eyes and that young smile. His world was a lot smaller and simpler than mine.

"Hey, when did you get here?" Nate asked, pulling away and looking at my face. His eyes were scanning me, like Mom. "You look like shit."

I laughed, and the knot of anger unwound a little. "Thanks. I just got here."

"Did someone kick you in the face on the way?"

"No. I'm just tired."

Nate looked doubtful. "What're you doing out here?"

I felt the tension roll back into my shoulders. "Dad."

Nate's face became serious. He scratched the back of his head. "He's doing a lot better now."

"That's the same thing Ma said."

"It's true." Nate kept his voice low, indicating that his words were untrue. "He has his job now, and he only drinks on the weekends, mostly."

"He still looks like himself to me."

Nate looked uncomfortable. But he shifted gears, lowering his voice even further. His tone was accusatory. "Is that why you left home?"

I snapped back, "I don't know why you haven't left yet."

"Really? Where am I gonna go?" Nate motioned around them, "I'm not joining the army, and I don't have any money to move out."

I almost brought up what Mom had said about him going to college, but he was already defensive. I forced myself to drop it – to drop everything. I didn't come here to fight with my brother.

We parted ways. I went back inside, excusing myself to my room.

I felt like a little boy again, poking through all the nooks and crannies I had hidden things in. I found old Star Wars figurines and questionable magazines. Mom had straightened up since I had left, but it was mostly untouched.

Except something was wrong.

I stepped into the doorframe and looked around again, trying to pick out what was different. It was the bookshelf, just slightly pulled out from the wall to show a gap behind it.

Hmm.

I leaned it toward me and found a dark lump on the ground between the shelf and the wall. It was soft, a small cloth bag. I brought it out and scowled at what I found inside.

Drugs.

It had to be Nate. He had stashed weed and a variety of narcotics in small baggies.

It was the proximity to my mission in El Salvador. I knew it was. I knew the anger bubbling up was not going to do anyone any good. Maybe my father was contributing to it, too. Maybe I was becoming more like Larry, too reactionary, too unbalanced.

I left the house looking for a fight.

Nate was in the garage, looking under the hood of his little lime car.

I stopped beside him, thrusting the bag out. "What is this?"

Nate looked up, smiling, and then the expression flew away. He snatched the bag out of my hand and shoved it through his car door. "Come on, man, what are you doing with that?"

"Is that what you do now, Nate? You bring drugs into the house?"

"You can drop that self-righteous tone!" Nate snapped, slamming his hood down and making a god-awful banging noise.

"Ma said you were going to college. Is that true? Are you lying to her?"

"That's none of your business!"

"You are my business!"

"Since when?" Nate was spitting fire. "You left! You left me here! You know what? I wish you had died over there. It would be easier than having you come back every year and tell me how much of a failure I am! I'm sorry I'm not what you expected! But I don't need you anymore!"

Nate stormed out of the garage.

It was like he had punched me. I wish you had died over there. It took my breath away. Many people had threatened to kill me, to dismember me, to weigh my body down on the ocean floor. I had faced death multiple times, forced myself to come to terms with the fact that I would lay my life down to save someone else.

But I never expected something like that to come from my own brother.

I said my goodbyes, a weight growing heavier every second I stayed in that house. Mom saw it on my face and hugged me so hard it hurt. She said goodbye with tears in her eyes.

I dialed out on my way to the airport.

Sam picked up, a little groggy, "Hello?"

"Hey, Sam. It's Michael."

"Mike!"

His voice made me smile. Sam was easy. Sam would never say anything so painful.

"What are your plans for the next week?" I asked.

"Oh, boy, I have a feeling they're about to get interesting."

I could almost see him rubbing his hands together.