Chapter 6: Dare not speak his name

The first punch took him by surprise, but the second didn't. The force behind the blows drove him to his knees, and he waited for the next hit to land from his prone position. But nothing happened, so Mando raised his eyes towards the towering figure.

"I should make you call me Colonel Vizla, you punk," he barked, his fists still clenched. Then just as quickly, his shoulders dropped, and his glare lost most of its intensity. Paz turned his back to him, and started walking towards his house once more. Mando was frozen on the spot, his mind slowly starting to catch up with his body and registering the pain.

"What are you waiting for? Get your ass off the ground and bring the kid inside," yelled the man who might still be his friend after all, never turning back to check what he was doing. He didn't have to, Mando was following his orders exactly.

The house looked big from where he was standing at the entrance, unsure of what was expected of him now. It faced the sea and he could smell salt in the air, coming from the opened sliding door that led to a deck. He put his bag and the kid on the ground, but the little one had decidedly picked up on the heavy atmosphere this time, and stayed glued to his leg, his small hands around his knee.

"In here!" he heard coming from his left, in a room he couldn't see. Mando tried moving in that direction but the kid still wouldn't budge, so he took him in his arms again.

The room turned out to be the kitchen, and Paz was standing over the counter, a bag of frozen peas in front of him.

"For your face," he simply said.

Thinking it was best to follow his lead for now – it came easily and naturally for him after all – he sat the kid on the counter, and placed the cold bag against the left side of his face. He winced immediately.

"Yeah, you're bleeding a bit," Paz confirmed, "but it looks like someone had a head start, wonder why…"

The taller man wasn't apologetic, and Mando didn't expect him to be. Still, trust Paz to punch the daylights out of him but to provide some relief afterwards, even it was just in the form of a glorified ice pack. He would have smiled if his bleeding lower lip had allowed him to – some things never changed. It wasn't the first time he was on the receiving end of his former superior's punches, and it was reassuring somehow to see it probably wouldn't be the last.

"Something to do with my face, I think," Mando said, surprising himself with the banter. But Paz nodded in acknowledgment.

"Should I get something for the boy? Maybe some juice?" he suggested, since said boy had been sitting quietly and a bit fearfully for a little while, now.

"Sure," agreed Mando, trying to work his jaw. There didn't seem to be anything broken, but man had he forgotten how strong his mentor was. He sat down on a bar stool and placed the kid next to him. He welcomed the juice and even managed to drink it without spilling too much of it from the glass. That earned Paz a small smile, which the imposing USAF Colonel took to heart. Mando wiped the blood from his lip with a tissue, checked one more time that all his teeth were still there, then looked up at Paz.

"So where do you wanna start, kid?"

Paz was only ten years his senior. But ever since he met him two decades ago during Operation Allied Force in Serbia, he'd been "kid". Especially when he'd done something wrong or stupid. And that was definitely the case, now.

This was a valid question, and it took Mando a while to pick the right beginning for his story. When he found the child? When he left the military three years ago? Truly, there was only one place he could start with.

"I never did say much about my childhood, did I?"

"That's a bit of an understatement, yeah. You seemed happy enough listening to me going on about mine. And good thing that you did apparently, because you found me."

"I didn't know where else to go, thank you for not sending me…us away." Paz harrumphed at that, then silently gestured for him to carry on.

"At the time, I didn't think my stories would make very good conversation," he hedged, still trying to find it in him to speak plainly and tell the truth.

"You always were a quiet one anyway."

Mando nodded, letting himself be distracted by the toddler who was playing with the discarded bag of peas.

"You wouldn't be the first kid joining the army after a shitty childhood."

"More like running away from it in my case, until it caught up to me again," Mando admitted.

"When you left, three years ago," Paz surmised. Mando acquiesced, knowing very well that he owed his old friend a better explanation, but drowning in an endless spiral of guilt, shame and fear.

"Do you know how close you came to get a less-than honorable discharge?" Paz asked angrily, clearly about to go on a roll. "You were just a few years off from being retired, if you wanted to," Mando nodded at this, contrite.

"And you'd just been made Captain, thanks in great parts to me." More nodding from Mando, who didn't know what else to do.

"You pissed off a lot of people!" Paz concluded, cutting his diatribe short, Mando barely suppressing a wince at the level of his voice. The kid had frozen on his seat, looking distraught and on the verge of tears. When the sob came, it was almost silent and remorseful. Mando took him in his arms, and the little one came willingly, burrowing against his shoulder. He almost expected Paz to accuse him of using the kid as a shield, preventing him from fessing up – and he'd be justified, really. Instead, he backed off with a muttered expletive, and turned towards the fridge.

"When was the last time you ate?"

"Huh, we had a bagel this morning," Mando said, taken aback by the change of direction.

"You're still living on the three Bs? Bagels, burgers and bananas?"

Mando shrugged.

"That's not healthy. And you lost a lot of weight since the last time I saw you."

Mando refrained from commenting on Paz's own weight, but he was apparently an open book, as his mentor snorted.

"I expected you to arrive last night, so I stayed up and woke up late this morning. I was just about to make breakfast. Pancakes sound good?"

To say that he was touched that Paz had been waiting for him wouldn't be covering half of it, so Mando stayed silent on the subject.

"How did you know?" he asked instead.

"I might be on holidays, but that doesn't mean I don't watch the news. So, pancakes?" he pressed.

"Yeah, thanks, Pa… I mean, Colonel Vizla," he quickly corrected himself.

"I was joking about that," he replied, although Mando was only half-convinced. He was far from being the first person to have noticed that Paz's name meant "peace" in Spanish – and many had sniggered way behind his back that it was highly ironical for a soldier – but the name had nonetheless always evoked a feeling of calm and serenity in him. He knew it was actually Polish in origin, and pronounced differently, yet the name had always held more meaning to him. That wasn't something he could easily express to his former superior though, even if part of him thought that Paz was aware of it.

"And you didn't think I was just gonna let one of my best elements simply vanish into thin air? I put a flag on your name. Discreetly, of course. But I've kept my tabs on you."

Mando stopped stroking the child's back at Paz's words, and the little one complained, although his tears had already ceased by then.

"You what?"

"I know where you live in L.A., that you kept your pilot license up to date and that you're working on a Master of Science in Industrial Engineering from ASU. What are you hoping to accomplish with that, by the way? And what else have you been doing, apart from the obvious?" he asked, eyeing the kid.

It took a while for Mando to absorb his words, and understand what he meant with the last part.

"That's not my son," he said, in an unexpectedly hurt tone.

"No?" Paz voiced, evidently not convinced, especially since the child was clinging fiercely to his neck.

"No, I've had him with me for less than two days. I just…found him," he justified himself lamely.

"So this isn't a case of you running off with your kid because your ex or whatever is threatening to leave the country or something?"

"No!" he denied loudly, offended that his mentor would think him capable of being in such a situation. Even when his situation was frankly a lot worse than that.

"And we are not expecting an angry mom coming though those doors any time soon?" Paz added, although he now seemed to be accepting Mando's defense, especially when he saw and heard his reaction.

"I actually wish there were," he sighed "but I'm pretty sure his parents are dead." Mando had added that last part very quietly, although he knew the child wouldn't understand. He was back at stroking his back in soothing circles and gradually, he managed to separate him from his chest, and sat him back on the counter. It was Paz's turn to be struck dumb.

"I should change him, is there a bathroom I can use somewhere?" Mando asked, standing up. "I have all the stuff I need," he added.

Paz nodded and pointed him in the right direction, mumbling something about making pancakes.

It was a relief for Mando as well to change the kid – he'd needed a break from his talk with Paz. He really should have done it earlier, but he'd been focused on arriving as quickly as possible to Bolinas that morning. Mando didn't know who he was reassuring, speaking almost nonsense Spanish to the kid as he was divesting him of his dirty diaper, cleaning him, applying cream, putting him in a new diaper and clothes, but the mechanical motions that were slowly starting to become more natural soothed him and centered him. The child had always been more responsive to Spanish, but Mando hadn't really let himself say more than a few words to him. It wasn't a language he was used to speak any more. Although he had opportunities to speak Spanish every day of the week in L.A., and with most of the other members of his gang, he still chose English, even when he was addressed in Spanish. And especially for profanity or vile words, which accounted for a lot of it. Spanish was the language of his parents – beautiful, and almost sacred. He wouldn't dishonor it and what it represented to him. But it was different with the kid, and words that used to only echo in his mind or in his dreams came more and more easily.

Both the child and him were a lot calmer when they exited the bathroom, and Mando felt ready to start his conversation with Paz again in the kitchen. But he found him on the deck outside, setting the table. He'd piled cushions on a chair for the toddler, and the vision of the pancakes seemed to please him immensely – he might still let Paz become his friend, especially if he kept on plying him with food. Mando was similarly reminded that he was hungry, although the smell of coffee was even more enticing.

They sat down and ate, Mando cutting small pieces for the child, who managed to get most of the pancake that was bigger than his head to start with in his mouth.

"More, papá," he asked, a big fan of maple syrup. Mando guessed speaking Spanish to him hadn't been such a bright idea after all, and under Paz's knowing look, he corrected the kid again, this time in English.

"I'm not 'papá', kid, I'm…"

"Try 'dada' instead, boy," suggested Paz, jumping on the opportunity when Mando couldn't come up with a suitable name quickly enough.

"Paz, what the f…" he started, then stopped himself when the kid happily asked "More, dada!".

Paz burst out laughing, the loud guffaw making the child jump at first, then he copied him with a quieter giggle. Mando simply groaned, and poured more maple syrup on the kid's pancake. That was another thing he hadn't forgotten about Paz – the man just loved making his life difficult on purpose.

It was almost as if they had both decided to pretend Mando was simply visiting his old friend, for the rest of the meal. The kid went on exploring the deck under his watchful eye after he was done eating his pancake, and Paz started telling him about what had been going on in the squadron, about the people who had left and those who were still there, about the garrison in Pope Field, North Carolina and about some operations halfway across the world. Mando stayed silent, only adding a few words here and there or nodding for him to carry on – not just because it was his usual way, but because he wanted to take in everything Paz was telling him. He hadn't expected to be so starved of news from his old life, but he was. And Paz knew exactly what this was doing to him.

The toddler had sat down on the deck during a lull in their conversation, and started rubbing his eyes. Mando was getting better at recognizing most of his habits, and could tell he needed a nap. It was also heating up outside with the midday sun over them.

Paz told him where to find the guest room, where he placed the child on the bed, surrounding him with pillows once more so that he wouldn't fall.

"You're all sticky, cariño," he complained half-heartedly, using a wet-wipe to clean his face and hands, grumbling internally for having reverted to Spanish again.

"Yes, dada," replied the kid with a sleepy grin, and Mando shook his head in dismay at his mentor's antics.

He found said mentor in the kitchen, and accepted the fresh cup of coffee he handed him.

"Go in the living room where it's cooler, I'll join you in a minute," Paz told him. Mando nodded absently, still lost in the world the Colonel had recreated for him outside, and puzzling over the new word in the kid's vocabulary.

The room he entered didn't help his predicament. Mando was immediately drawn to a bookcase covered in frames. The place had been Paz's grandfather's, and he saw many family pictures. Paz growing up on the beach right outside. His sister, who he'd met once, and who now worked as a Unit Supply Specialist. His little brother, who had died young, and whom Mando had sometimes wondered if he was replacing in his friend's mind. Parents and cousins who looked a bit like him, many who had also served or were still in active duty. Friends from the USAF Mando knew and friends he didn't. In and out of uniforms. At weddings, parties, or in faraway countries. A picture in particular caught his eye, and he picked up the frame. Two men in sage green flight suits standing in front of a Lockheed C-130 Hercules, helmets under their arms, faces sweaty and grinning at the camera. With a pang, Mando remembered that yes, he'd been happy then. Very happy.

"I was your co-pilot that day," said Paz behind him. Mando hadn't heard him enter the room.

"Yeah, I remember," he replied, still trying to see if his eyes in the picture told him something else.

"The mission was shit, though," Paz added, and Mando smiled realizing that no, his eyes weren't hiding anything else. There was just joy there. He put the frame back where it was carefully, wondering why he'd never kept pictures.

"You were a great pilot, kid," his former superior said to his back, and Mando was almost tempted to deck him, to lash out, because this was just too much for him to handle. Instead, he drank some coffee and turned from the pictures.

Paz was sitting down, his back to the window, which would allow Mando to face the seascape outside. Nice of him, he thought, except nothing would make the conversation they were about to have any easier. At least, the kid was sleeping soundly, and he'd be a bit rested if they had to make a hasty exit. He had no idea how Paz would react after all. He'd be happy if his only reaction was simply to punch him some more.

"The reason I never told you or anyone about my childhood isn't that it was shitty," Mando started as soon as he sat down, the coffee cup warming his clammy hands, "I mean, it was shitty, for the most part, but that's not it."

"It was a pretty normal childhood until I was seven, and then it wasn't," he continued, Paz completely silent. "I know I've blocked some of it now, and that I should have more memories of that time, but I do remember that my father worked in an office, and my mother in a library. I went to school, I had friends, we would go to the cinema during the weekends, normal things. Everything just felt normal. Except in the last few days, when they seemed to get scared about something. It might have been going on for longer than that, but I was just a kid, and that's what I remember."

He drank some more coffee to order his thoughts. He'd never recounted it before to anyone, and it was a lot more difficult than he had expected to simply transfer what was deeply ingrained in his mind into words.

"It was a weekday, late afternoon. My father had come home from work earlier than usual. He seemed distressed, and he spoke to my mom, but I don't know what it was about. All I know, is that they hid me in the cupboard upstairs, and told me not to come out under any circumstances."

Mando breathed in.

"So I stayed there. For a little while. And then I heard people come into the house, yell things I couldn't make out, then there were loud noises. Deafening. I had no idea what they were then, just that they were final, because there were no other noises after that for a long time. For a very long time, actually."

And out.

"It was daylight outside when the man came, so I guess I must have fallen asleep at one point, but I can't remember. He told me to come out and that it was safe, now. I was hungry, so I got out, and he took me in his arms and said that I should close my eyes once we got downstairs. But I didn't, and I'm glad, because at least that meant I could be certain they were dead."

Mando paused there, expecting questions. It took Paz a while to say anything.

"Who was the man?" he asked, just as Mando was about to continue.

"I'd never seen him before. He spoke Spanish to me so in my mind, that made it alright. He told me my parents were dead once we were outside and I pretended that I didn't know already."

Paz smiled without humor.

"My parents had fled their country before I was born and I had no other family in the city. We were living in Highland Park, in north east Los Angeles, and the man drove me south, to neighborhoods I had never seen until then. Before we got out of the car, he told me I had to change my name, that I could never use my real name again because I was in danger. That I could end up like my parents if I did. So he named me."

"Wait, are you saying you've been using a fake name all along?"

"It's not fake to me anymore, but yeah."

"What's your real name, then?" he asked.

Mando stayed silent, although part of him wanted to say it out loud.

"You can't even say it?" Paz uttered incredulously, shaking his head. Mando shrugged, and the older man gestured for him to continue, although he could tell his story was starting to make little sense to him. He was trying to only mention the necessary bits, but still had to give enough details to make it realistic. It sounded like a children story because it was – most of what he remembered from that time had been idolized, preserved like an old film in sepia color. He'd done it in order to remain sane, choosing to forget and edit out the really bad parts.

"The people he took me to lived in some big community, in several houses on a small street, and there were adults but also a lot of other kids. Some who had parents, and some who didn't, like me. I was made to feel welcomed and given everything I needed: food, a bed, friends my age to play with, a whole new neighborhood to discover, and more than one mom to patch me up when I hurt myself. The man who'd rescued me came and went, and the other kids told me he was like their leader."

"You never went to the police?" Paz interrupted, frowning.

"Why would I? I was seven, and I knew my parents were dead. The people I was with were nice," Mando explained easily.

"Who were those people?" he asked.

"I didn't know then, and I didn't ask. After a while, I was allowed to go back to school, with my new name. And it felt almost like normal again."

"They just…created an identity for you?"

"Yeah, easily. I had a social security number and everything." Paz snorted, then realized Mando was serious.

"I was the nephew or the cousin of other members of the community."

"What community? Mando, or whatever your name is, what was this place?"

"I was ten when I figured it out, I think. I followed some of the older boys one night. I was good at sneaking out and staying quiet. They'd go stand at corners in the neighborhood, while others would be on the lookout."

"Doing what?"

"Dealing."

The penny dropped for Paz.

"I didn't know it was drugs then, but I could tell they were selling stuff."

"So the community was…"

"A gang, yes," Mando confirmed. "Nuestra Familia, one of the biggest criminal organizations in California, and most of the West Coast. They deal in drugs, guns, murder and extortion."

Paz's incredulity had turned into shock.

"And you…took part in all of that?"

"They didn't have me do much before I was twelve or thirteen. But I could run pretty fast, so they had me as a spotter in the neighborhood. Reporting cops, or suspicious activity. I wasn't too bad at math either, so they would send me with older boys to count money sometimes. Easy stuff at first…"

Mando took a small break, looking at the coffee table instead of Paz – it helped not to see his reaction any longer.

"Then as I grew up, I started having more and more responsibility. The boss – the man who'd rescued me – always had the right word to convince me, and he quickly found out that there was something that would always work with me."

"What?"

"He waited until I was fifteen – that's the age you can decide to join the gang. And he told me what had happened to my parents. I'd always wondered of course, but I was too scared to ask. I'd never set foot in my old neighborhood again. I had guessed by then that their death was gang-related, and I was right: they'd been targeted by La Eme, the Mexican mafia. A bigger and more powerful gang than ours."

"Ours?" Paz seethed. Mando could only sigh in reply.

"You have to understand how gangs work – it's all about territory. Territory in jail, where they operate the most, and territory in the streets. If you control drugs and guns dealings in a particular neighborhood, then it's yours. And no one can take it from you. The community in South L.A. was my neighborhood, my family, and there was nothing I wouldn't do to protect them."

"Nothing?"

"Well, almost nothing," conceded Mando.

"I'm not sure I want to know."

"I'm not proud of who I was back then, far from it, but I never took out a life except in self-defense or to protect others."

"But you did kill people. Before the army." Paz didn't sound accusatory, just curious.

"Yes," Mando admitted, "and I've killed again since I left the Air Force."

"But what changed, then? They seemed to have you brainwashed pretty good."

"They did," he conceded, not blind on that aspect, "but they wanted to send me to Baja. And I knew that when the kids went there they came back changed – they were turned into killers over there. Piled with drugs, and trained."

"And you chose the army instead?" Paz marveled in consternation.

"I even asked the boss before I enlisted."

"Why? You were eighteen, they didn't own you," he harped on, although he was missing the point.

"Oh, they did own me as you put it. But they were my only family. I wasn't free to do anything without the boss' blessing. But to my surprise, he thought that it was a good idea. That I could learn stuff in the army to teach the others. To this day, I have no idea if he actually believed that or if he just let me go."

Mando sat back against the sofa, glad to be done with this part of the story, but fearful of Paz's continued silence.

"Then they left you alone?"

"For the most part, yes. I avoided going back to L.A. during permissions and they only asked for some of my paycheck. And you know the rest, the army, then the Air Force, then…"

"Then you left."

"Then I left…"

"Why?" Paz asked, pouring all his disbelief and his ire behind that single word. Asking the question he'd wanted answered for the last three years.

"The same reason as always – they owned me. And they'd decided they could make my life miserable if I didn't do as they said. The choice was simple: either I left the USAF quickly but on my own terms, with an honorable discharge – hopefully – or if I took too long they could make sure I was discharged on their own terms."

"They were blackmailing you," Paz translated.

"Best case scenario, they had enough to have me court-martialed. With stuff that I did do before joining the army, and even worse stuff that others had done, and that they could easily pin on me. But who would be interested to find out if it was true or not? They were just messing with me, and they knew they would succeed."

"But why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you turn to us, or the police?" he erupted.

"Why do you think, Paz? I was just about to lose everything. All my achievements, all the respect… It was the only way to keep all that alive, even if it was just a memory. You, all of you in the squadron and in the airborne division before that, became my second family. And I preferred to leave you than lose your esteem."

"Fuck our esteem, we would have been there, we wouldn't have deserted you."

Mando shook his head, his turn to be unconvinced.

"As for the police, I'd learned early on not to trust them, and the past few days and what happened with the kid are proof that I was right."

Paz stood up, walking in circles. He did that when he was about to burst.

"So what have you been doing for the last three years, then?"

Mando stayed on the sofa, doing his best to remain calm. He was almost done with his story.

"I finally figured out that they needed a pilot to fly supply from Mexico, and I was the best candidate."

"Jesus Christ, tell me you haven't been doing that!" That was Paz's loudest outburst since the start of their conversation, and Mando couldn't blame him. Somehow, dealing drugs and killing in self-defense was one thing. But using his piloting skills for nefarious purposes was just inconceivable to a fellow airman.

"I haven't, because shortly after I came back, the boss died. He was sick, and I think that was the main reason he wanted my return."

"Why?" pressed Paz, still loud enough for Mando to worry that he would wake the child.

"I don't know," Mando admitted. He couldn't reconcile that a man who had saved him, taken him in, then demanded awful deeds from him before accepting to let him go only to snatch him back when it pleased him, would also wish to have him close to him when he died. "I've more or less been back to my role before I joined the army, but I've managed to keep up with my studies and my piloting, as you've found out. The new boss is a lot laxer in his management, so I've had more wiggle room than in the past. I was starting to formulate a plan when the boy…"

"God, I can't hear about the boy, now," interrupted Paz. "I need to think, this is just too much, and I don't know what the fuck I can believe from what you've just told me. It's just too… Too crazy, kid, even for you."

Mando stood up, thinking he'd been dismissed.

"We can leave tonight, don't worry about it," he told him, hoping this was still a possibility.

"And go where?" asked Paz, looking straight at him, and not without malice. "Stay put, there's nowhere for you both to go right now. And it's the 4th of July, good luck on finding anywhere to sleep tonight around here."

Mando nodded, aware of this, but knowing that he would still leave if he had no choice. He'd told Paz the truth, all of it, and it hadn't been enough. He didn't believe him. There was nothing else he could do and he wasn't sure more time would help convince the older man.

"I need to go to the store before it closes for the celebrations tonight. You need anything?"

Mando was taken aback – this was the last thing he'd expected from Paz, although the man was famous for changing subjects of conversations to throw people. But he'd just switched from calling him a liar to ask him what his favorite flavor of chips was, basically.

"Stuff for the boy?" he pressed.

Still thinking that Paz was having him on and was about to go to the police as soon as he left the house, he asked for diapers and wet-wipes – they were running low. Perhaps having him rummaging through baby stuff at the store would give him enough time to make his escape quietly. Paz nodded, clearly nonplussed at the request, and was just about to exit the room when he suddenly turned back towards him.

"Just tell me one thing, kid. Why did you stay with them? After all this time? Even when you knew that what you were doing was wrong? Even when they betrayed you and blackmailed you and asked you to do horrible things for them? I just can't understand that."

Curiously, this question, more than all the others he had asked him before made Mando angry. Not believing him was one thing, but it was as if he hadn't been listening. Hadn't comprehended what this had all been about. All his life and all his struggles. He raised his hands to his face, wincing at the contact over his bruises and cuts and noticing that he was shaking in rage.

"How could you understand?" he said, his voice gradually becoming louder, "How could you understand, when all your life you've had this?" pointing at the bookcase covered in picture frames. "Parents, grand-parents, siblings, cousins, friends… All those people who were there for you and encouraged you and supported you no matter what. I had none of that, and I'm not saying this because I want your pity. I just want you to try and see things from my perspective."

Mando was breathing hard now, and sweating. Paz's expression was unreadable.

"Those people who betrayed me and blackmailed me and made me do horrible things as you said, they're all I have. They made me who I am, for better or worse. And yes, the military was my second family, and part of me died when I had to give it up. But I had to give it up. Not for some bullshit conception of honor or pride. Because they're this", gesturing to the pictures again. "They're the family I have not the one I chose."

He finally stopped and left the room, not wanting to see or hear Paz's reaction. He was done, empty, there was nothing more he could say. He went to the guest room and a few minutes later he heard the front door close.

The kid was still asleep, looking peaceful, not having moved an inch. Mando felt as though he'd been speaking for hours, but it had only taken half an hour at most. Half an hour, to rehash all his sorry life. He didn't think he'd ever spoken uninterrupted for that long before. Especially about anything so personal. Still sweating profusely, he removed his T-shirt and paced the room, trying to calm himself. He needed to get his breathing under control – he'd never suffered a panic attack before but he imagined it felt like that. He couldn't get enough air and his throat felt more and more constrictive. What the hell was he going to do? There was no one else to turn to, now. No one who could help. He was on his own, it was just him and the kid.

Breathe in, breathe out. He told himself. Mando had seen it happen many times to other soldiers, and he'd been the one providing relief, calming them. And now it was happening to him.

He sat on the bed, careful not to wake the boy, and observed him. His little chest rising and falling, rising and falling. Not a care in the world. This eventually did the trick, and he copied the same breathing pattern, lying quietly next to him. Rising and falling, rising and falling, rising and falling...

Mando opened his eyes, unsure how much time had elapsed since he closed them. The sun was still shining outside, behind the almost see-through curtains. He wondered if Paz was back. Or if he'd gone to the police.

The child had woken up, too. He'd turned towards him from his nest of pillows, looking serious.

"Dada," he said, raising his arms. Mando didn't react to the word, and didn't reply anything. He grabbed him under his arms and placed him over his chest, not moving from his lying position on the bed.

Chest to chest, he could feel his little heart beat, faster than his own. Still, it was oddly reassuring. Mando let him explore his face with his small hands. His movements were more careful and measured than he expected and he didn't flinch. He was babbling incoherently but not in sadness or fear. So he just let him be, and stayed silent. He still felt hollowed out, and incapable of saying anything. What would be the point?

The kid was starting to get restless, pushing with all his surprising strength against his chest.

"Up, up, up!"

Mando preferred it when he couldn't understand his words. He sighed, wondering if the child was hungry or thirsty, and got up, aware that he couldn't stay hidden forever. He had to face whatever was waiting for him outside the door, and he couldn't let his situation impact the kid more than it already did.

He left the room and went to the kitchen. The toddler had nodded when he'd uttered the word "water". Paz was nowhere to be seen, and the clock on the microwave told him he'd been gone for two hours. Mando wasn't sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing. He placed the boy on the counter, and proceeded to find him a glass for his drink. He was helping him to it when Paz entered, carrying heavy shopping bags.

It took a while for Mando to understand why Paz was looking at him so strangely. He seemed distressed, somehow. Then he remembered he hadn't put his T-shirt back on, and he immediately felt self-conscious. He knew he wasn't a pretty sight, with his chest, back and arms covered in scars and old wounds. Some that had not healed quite yet. The military was no place to be bashful about one's physique – quite the contrary – but he'd been less damaged, then. Most marks had appeared in the last three years, and none of them held a nice memory. He'd been stabbed, cut, shot at and even burned on one occasion. He'd broken, sprained or cracked countless bones. His joints were wrecked. Few injuries had truly been life threatening, but they'd all left a reminder on his skin and in his mind.

Mando went back to helping the kid, who'd asked for more water. There was no point trying to hide, now.

"I got what you asked at the store," Paz said neutrally.

"Thanks," he answered in a similar tone.

"I had no idea there were so many types of diapers, so I got a selection."

Mando couldn't prevent a small smile at that.

"I also got us some stuff for a barbecue tonight," he added, opening the fridge.

"A barbecue?"

"It's the 4th of July," reminded him Paz as if he was stupid.

"I know that," Mando quickly countered, "but…"

"There should be enough food for a few days, I'm sure the boy can eat most of it," he continued, placing countless items in the fridge. Meat, vegetables, eggs, beer…

"Paz…" Mando tried to start again.

He turned to him after he was done organizing stuff in the fridge. Paz was only a couple of inches taller than him, but he'd always seemed bigger than that, somehow. That wasn't the case at the moment, though, and he looked smaller, his eyes fixed on his upper left arm, which he knew displayed a particularly ugly gunshot wound.

"I'm sorry for not believing you, kid. I know it must have cost you to share your story with me. You still haven't told me about your boy, and we need to figure out what to do. You both look like you could use some rest, and you can do that here. So stay," he ended up saying.

A huge weight lifted from Mando's shoulders, and he couldn't trust his voice not to shake, so he simply nodded.