Leif walked through the street's busy pedestrian traffic, feeling self-conscious. It was an unusual sensation; less than a year before, the land he trod had been fertile prairie, surrounded by endless swaths of the same, save for the mountains visible to the west.

Here and now, it was a small town. Asphalt roads stretched in limited directions, concrete sidewalks raised above the tarred lengths as one might expect of a well-organized citizenry. There were even a few small stores, providing services and groceries for the few permanent residents.

He shook himself. 'Good memories. Old times.'

A towering centaur approached, clearing a path with ease. Other centaurs gave him a respectful amount of space, ensuring the path he chose was unobstructed. The centaur came to a stop by Leif, and smiled. "Mister Larsen, good morning!"

Leif gave a courteous nod in response. "Mornin' Philip."

"Off to see my fair sister? Her dwelling is not far from here." The centaur seemed to have a single mode of speech; loud and booming. Passersby were starting to stare, looks of recognition coming all too soon. "I will assure you of safe passage."

He looked around at the clean streets, and open sidewalks. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Of course! Anything for my beloved sister's suitor!"

The looks intensified. Apparently, Roanette was a very popular figure, given the angry looks being thrown his way from various male centaurs. On the other hand, there were more than a few evaluating glances from the female portion of the equine population – which felt more uncomfortable than the less benevolent attention.

"Thanks," He said again. The amount of sarcasm in his tone could've sunk a battleship, ignored by the muscle-bound centaur.

Their route seemed of unnecessary length. American flags were hanging everywhere, positioned over doorways, on flag poles and even over the Embassy quarter. There were three major species with representation there, and almost a dozen of the less populous liminal varieties. But they all had hung out flags in honor of the holiday.

Roanette's dwelling was closer to the center of the village, which they reached after a circuitous fifteen minute perambulation. Like the other houses, it too boasted a flagpole, the American flag waving from its height. But Leif's attention was drawn to the small flower boxes set by the windows, and diminutive greenery separating the sidewalk from the house proper.

'Can't everyone have a few acres for a house,' he admitted to himself. But the quantity of yard seemed … paltry. 'No wonder she likes stayin' over at my place.'

"And here I must leave you," Philip took a small bow, and flashed a glittering white smile. A pair of matching centaurides seemed to take notice, giggling behind upraised hands. But the massive centaur leaned lower, lowering his voice. "Take care of my sister, Larsen. Lord of the Land you may be, but that matters little with my concern for her."

Leif's respect for the centaur shot up. Instead of speaking, he reached out, and slapped an approving hand on the big being's shoulder. A simple nod conveyed the rest of his approval, without something so unnecessary as words.

"Well then?" Philip backed up, almost colliding with an elf, who sidestepped the centaur with what seemed unconscious grace. "Go ahead. Knock on the door."

Rolling his eyes, Leif advanced the short walk, walked up the three steps, and raised his hand. For a brief moment he hesitated – if one were obsessed with propriety, this would be the first time he'd called on a girl. Was he supposed to bring flowers? Some sort of edible snack? But they were going to an event where both were in abundance, why would that be necessary?

Steeling himself, he seized the knocker and slammed it against the metal-inlaid door. Like the other homes, it had a thick wooden frame, inlaid with galvanized steel, strong enough to hold back a determined team of bison, if he were any judge.

'Wait.' Leif took a closer look. 'That looks like the door back home.'

As he took a closer look, the door swung inwards, leaving Leif staring a bit below neck level at a tall woman.

"Ro'." He adjusted his gaze upwards. "Lookin' good. Ready?"

The centauride paused in the door frame. Her dark hair was bound back in a loose, elegant style, in what looked like blue kerchief ties. The color matched her light denim jacket, and understated blouse. She gave him a brilliant smile, long ears upright and focused on him. "Thank you, yes. Will we ride? Or …?"

Leif felt another burst of nervousness as she crab stepped, still inside the doorway. Out of sight of the general public, a handsome saddle waited upon a chair, polished and gleaming. Her own equine half was covered in the custom of her species, akin to the Renaissance-style he'd seen before. But there was space for the saddle to rest upon her back, and a definite gleam in her eyes as she watched him study the tack.

"I … got the truck," he brought his gaze back, away from the saddle and all it represented. Amongst centaurs, for a human to ride upon their back was a sign of utter acceptance and devotion, marriage in its most basic form. He tried to keep that in mind. "First date and all."

"Official first date," Roanette gave a broad wink. "Very well, my shy beau. As you desire."

He stepped back, inhaling through his nose. As a rule, certain liminals were very forward in their intentions. Teaching them restraint was a test of his own, and an exercise in patience that would've led a turtle to develop an ulcer.

Together, they walked back through town to the parking lot where visitors were welcome to leave their vehicles. As the went, the centauride managed to acquire his hand, and held it as they promenaded.

"You do know you may park within the town itself?" Roanette cocked her head, looking down at him. "Your authority would make that possible, even without our courtship."

He gave a small shrug to that. "Precedent. Gotta be careful."

"True," she agreed. "The eyes of the entire population are upon us. Did you know we had visitors from Atlanta, Georgia? And Vancouver? They were most impressed with the arrangements. I believe our architect will never want for anything, except for time."

"Good." He meant it. Designing a town site for minimal environmental impact, while including all the necessaries for multiple species, was a difficult task. "Earned it."

"Indeed he did," her ears perked forwards. "Is that … your pickup? I do not recall having seen it before."

"Yep." He fished a set of keys from his jacket's pocket. "Kinda new. Uh, might've worked on it a bit."

What he didn't say was how much work had gone into modifying the Ford F-600. Already larger than most light-duty vehicles, it had the same rough dimensions of some grain trucks, but looked more svelte to the right viewer. Reworking the entire bed to become a part of the cab had taken effort, as had installing the centaur-sized seats. Opening the back of the cab had taken little effort, but keeping it all weatherproof meant taking a fine-toothed comb to it. Hand-machining parts took time, but gave the best quality.

"Back here," he pulled out the key fob. That had been the hardest part, requiring outside assistance. Everything had been mechanical, relying on hydraulics the way he understood them. But certain features needed modern upgrades, which Wesson had been happy to provide.

The back hatch split in vertical lines, doors opening to either side. The original tailgate had been removed, leaving space for the door-like attachments. From the center of the former bumper, a short staircase unfolded, coming to a stop on the ground.

Roanette stared, dark blue eyes widened, taking in every detail.

Leif shifted around to the back. "Might need to duck a bit. Got most of the kinks out. Didn't rightly want to test it without you, though. Sorry."

The centauride drifted closer, lowering a little to see inside the vehicle. "Are those … custom seats?"

He shrugged. "Easy enough."

"Leif," her voice had a strange hitch to it. "I left one in your home. And you recreated it in a form suitable for travel?"

This time his blank look had some power to it. 'What else could I have done? Set up hay bales? That gets itchy after a while. And humid. And smells.'

Her arms encircled his shoulders without warning. But she'd learned how to moderate displays of affection, which his ribs appreciated. Still, there was a definite feeling of power, in how she lifted him off his feet, just a little.

"Thank you," her voice was husky. "You didn't have to do that."

He reached up, patting the hands clasped over his chest. He hoped it wasn't too awkward. "Welcome."

Softness touched his cheek, and then Roanette let go. "Well, let's go! We have a date to go on!"

Leif stepped back, as Roanette trotted up the short stairwell, into the truck's interior. She seemed to divine the simple panel with ease, selecting the appropriate control for closing the rear hatch.

As he came around the side, he discerned the slight figure of Agent Wesson, lurking.

"Liked it." He gave the man a grateful nod. "Thanks for the help."

Wesson smirked. "I'll bet she did. You might want to … ah …." His hand made vague motions towards Leif's cheek.

"Huh?" Leif reached up, swiped his fingers, and checked. Bright lipstick adorned his fingertips. "Oh."

"Yes, 'oh'," Wesson handed over a handkerchief. "Here. I have extras. Now you better get going. Don't want the rest of your work to go to waste, do you?"

Scrubbing at his cheek, Leif said nothing. Climbing into the cab was a little higher than normal, but that gave better clearance for the wheels and axels. Positive things in his opinion.


Kitzscherwas a small town by anyone's standards. With a population of less than five hundred souls, it occupied a special niche in the local community. Farmers relied upon its presence for groceries and service for smaller repairs. The town itself relied upon its neighboring farmers to provide a regular income to its few merchants, and labor for its shrinking population. An electric power plant, smattering of shops, and a state government office provided all the local non-agricultural employment.

Leif pointed out a shuttered building on the outskirts of town. "Went to school there. Closed about ten years ago. Shame."

"Why did they close the school?" Roanette craned her neck as they passed it by. "Is the population reduced by so much?"

"Politics." Leif shrugged. "School districts got merged. Same thing happened decades ago. Bad blood over it. But there it is."

Excited, Roanette turned the other way. "The Legion hall?

"Yep." Leif wove around slow-moving pedestrians, turning the massive vehicle into a parking spot alongside a green open space. "Good parking. Looks like they're ready, too."

"Too?" Roanette asked.

Not answering, Leif popped open the cab door, and hit the rear door switch. It slid open, allowing her to exit. She did so, hooves treading each step with care; quadrupeds needed great care when using stairs.

"Shall we?" he offered an arm without thinking. It was with even greater surprise that the centauride took his arm, tucking her flank against his side without hesitation.

Their presence caused a small stir; Leif nodded to the few who raised a hand in greeting, pausing now and again to exchange greetings. Most were of the elderly persuasion, with perhaps a tenth of the attendees under fifteen years of age, enthusiastic about meeting so many people at once.

"Are these friends of yours?" Roanette murmured, dropping her head to mutter in his ear.

Leif almost shied away from the buzzing sensation, but restrained himself. "Some. Lotta folks come in once a year for this. Good times."

He almost smiled when the centauride pulled his arm a little closer, possessively.

The building they approached was of older construction, painted cinderblock and concrete, built in the time of cheap cement and a good work ethic. Straight walls made of alternating blocks were made smooth through continuous applications of an old latex-like paint, filling in the cracks, rising to a shadowed ceiling almost twenty feet above.

Passing through the outer doors of the main entrance, which were situated at ninety degree angles to the larger doors into the building proper, Leif turned to one side, and paused. Photographs lined the upper portion of the front wall, many in black-and-white, others in a sepia-like tone.

"Who are they?" Roanette gazed upwards with him.

"Veterans. Went on Long Patrol." He pointed at an image higher and to the left. "Great Uncle Myron. World War Two." His finger moved further right. "Great Grandpa Larsen. World War One."

"Oh." She looked for a few more moments, until pressure on her arm tugged her away. "Leif?"

His little smile seemed to help. "Come on. Smörgåsbord soon."

"What?"

His smile grew wider. "Memorial Day. First we remember. Then, smörgåsbord."

Her confusion only served to heighten his amusement.


Life in the rural locales tended to ensure a certain conservatism, Leif mused. Traditions stayed alive in agrarian settings that vanished in the cities. Memorial services were reduced to discounts in massive shopping centers, and token displays by well-meaning folk. But in the countryside, everyone knew someone in the armed forces; certain things were taken seriously.

'Gotta love some stuff more than others.' He viewed the long serving table with undisguised relish. At least six varieties of noodle salad were available, and a full spread of potato, ham, and chicken selections. From his current view, there were ten lineal feet of cold sandwich fixings, with the ever-present coffee pot and flavored water.

"So … do I choose one?" Roanette held a paper plate in one awkward hand, scanning the buffet's length. The other guests had made room, flowing around to the other side of the table.

"Anything and everything," Leif selected one of the bean salads, and added a generous portion to his plate. "Take as much as you want. Usual is one plate, as high as you can pile it, but they already know you need more than that."

"Oh … good." She began piling more onto her plate. He noticed her selections ran heavier on the vegetable side, but gave it no mind. "How does everyone decide what to bring?"

Leif chuffed out a quick breath, then caught it. Maybe he was spending too much time with the horses? No matter – he enjoyed life. That's what was critical. Then he realized the centauride was waiting for an answer. How to explain the mysterious organization of the Church Ladies? It was a befuddling enigma to him, but how best to convey such a concept?

So he picked a point, and began.

[break]

The drive back was quiet. The late afternoon sun illuminated the pastoral scenery with brilliance. Trees, just beginning their spring growth, stood tall against the new grass, highlighting the windbreaks separating fields from each other.

"Good weather today," he commented.

Silence met his statement. It could be a good thing, or it could mean something bad. He never could tell, when women were involved.

So he continued driving, absent-minded control of the wheel angling the meandering route back to his home. There were chores to do, even if it was a federal holiday. The dogs were doing well, a new litter of puppies that were all half-grown by now. It made one wonder, at times.

"What is it?"

Leif glanced over, seeing the centauride's intelligent eyes fixed on him. She seemed interested, but for reasons he didn't think he could understand.

"Time." He waved a hand. "Goes fast. Goes slow. Kinda hard to figure out."

She seemed to consider that. "Would you mind if I asked for something?"

"Just did," he made a wry face as she snorted. "Sure."

Roanette leaned forward a little. "Would you mind if we went to The Place, today? I know we were just together, but … it was also with a lot of people. Good people, but I'd like to spend time with you."

The thought wasn't unpleasant. In fact it seemed downright attractive. But there were chorse to do and ….

'Time.' His eyes went to the skies, watching the sun as it made its unstoppable journey across its breadth. He could recall the images of ancestors on the Legion walls, stories from old friends about good times, in good company. 'I … can't argue with that.'

Without answering, he heeled the wheel over, changing direction. The Place was deep in Larsen lands, but there was a dirt road connecting to a gravel road, which intersected with the state road he was on.

"Thank you, Leif." Her hand found his, fingers intertwining.

Leif's rough fingers contrasted with her slim, smooth fingers – a lifetime of uncaring use opposed to the constant regimen of various skin products, he supposed. Was he supposed to say anything? He wasn't sure. 'Making good memories. Remember this some time from now. Good, I hope. Won't know until I get there.'


A/N: Wrote this pretty fast, and it's a bit shorter than usual, which I believe is acceptable for a bonus chapter. A lot of the details come from memories of Memorial Day celebrations, when bringing a girl out was indicative of being pretty serious about it. Hope it wasn't so saccharine as to give you diabetes.