A/N: It looks like this chapter is coming in ahead of schedule! I'm almost finished with the next chapter as well, but that's only because I chose to split what I had written for Chapter 6 into two parts. (I had tried to fit Alexander's whole decision process into one chapter but it became extremely long—more than twice as long as my other chapters have been [and after publishing a rather short chapter before this one at that] [what is consistency? ;-) ]—so I split it.)

Please review this story, I would really like to hear your opinions.

Expect the next chapter after this by the 3rd. (If I don't get Chapter 7 published by then, feel free to pester me about it until I do)

Until then, enjoy this one!

Chapter 6: Choice, Part One (Alexander)

I stood there in my study, alone and uncertain, as Betsey walked back out through the open door. When I had first entered the room earlier in the night, I had known exactly what course I would take in the matter: I would attend the interview (for I knew it was too late to turn back now) and I would waste my first fire—and perhaps even my second as well, if the situation ever reached that point. My certainty persisted as I wrote out my statement of intent; despite my growing disquiet, my certainty persisted as I finished my farewell letter. After my wife discovered the matter, however...

Her words still echoed in my mind long after she herself had faded from view: ...you must keep in mind your other responsibilities...if it does take some unexpected turn...are you willing to leave...our children fatherless in its name?...

...fatherless...fatherless...fatherless...

It had been mere minutes since Father had returned home and already he and Mother were quarreling over something or other. Again.

I stared off into the evening sky, watching a light rain fall over this part of the island as I attempted to tune out the row at the back of the house. Needless to say, this approach only succeeded for perhaps a minute or two before it again commanded even a small share of my attention, despite the fact that the argument sounded, to my ears, just quiet enough to not be clearly heard.

After a slight lull in the quarrel, I heard footsteps—clearly the shuffling ones of my older brother—come closer to the room I waited in. I could hear our parents resume the argument seemingly right where they had left off as my brother seated himself next to me at the window.

"James?" I turned from the window to look at him. "What...what changed? What caused..." I gestured toward the back of the house "... all this?"

My brother shook his head, his blue eyes unreadable.

"This began only recently...perhaps a couple months ago at most. Something must have changed, something must have gone wrong, but I have no idea what, and to be perfectly honest...it scares me."

"I could say the same." My older brother ran one hand through his light brown hair, just like he would always do when worried or otherwise distressed. "Though what can either of us do but wait and see what comes of the matter?"

"We could pray about this." With as young as we were—James thirteen and I only eleven—that was all we likely could do about the present situation. Still, better that than complete inaction.

My brother merely nodded halfheartedly before turning back to the window.

Our mother and father ceased quarreling before too long, but the tension between the two of them was still clearly palpable long after the shouting died down.

Actually, "clearly palpable" would be considered an understatement. The tension was heavy, thick, suffocating, and eventually—around the middle of evening meal—I found I could not endure another minute of being anywhere near it.

"May I be excused?" I asked.

After a long moment, Mother finally replied, "Yes, you may."

It took every fiber of my being to walk away normally, as if I were unperturbed by the very thing I couldn't stand any longer, instead of sprinting from the table the moment she finished her response as I desperately wished to do. Somehow, in some way that even I did not quite know, I succeeded in doing so.

That night, sleep refused to come until long after the sky had gained its nighttime hue, and even when it did finally arrive, it was a light and fitful sort of slumber—at this time, a rather commonplace occurrence.

Three times, I had awakened to a room lit only by moonlight—the rain had shifted by then—and my brother's soft snoring beside me. I envied James then, how his sleep patterns were never forced to match his state of mind. Even worried as he was, sleep still came to him quickly and deeply, and lasted through the night.

After the third time I found myself awake, I gave up on attempting to fall asleep again. I would only sleep for a short while before awakening a fourth time, and besides, the sky was already beginning to lighten and morning was on the horizon.

It had been no more than perhaps ten minutes since I awakened then when something caught my attention. Some small sound, vague and indistinct, had begun to reach my ears, and something was urging me to look for the source.

Quietly, so as to not accidentally rouse my brother, I crept out of bed and made my way to the place the sound was coming from. Eventually, I traced it to the dining room, where my mother sat at the table, light brown hair a tangled mess, breathing ragged, tears streaming down her face and dripping onto the page she held tightly in her white-knuckled hands.

"Mother?" I asked, softly, hesitantly, as I walked up to her. "What happened? Why do you cry so?"

She set down the page she held in her hands and turned to me, brown eyes brimming with sadness and shock and other emotions I did not yet know the names for. "A-Alexander," she choked out.

"Your...father..."

She took two or three full breaths before continuing on: "He...he left. He's gone."

The flashback ended as abruptly as it came, leaving me short of breath and unsteady on my feet to such a degree that I might have fallen to the floor had I not caught myself on the desk I was standing beside. As I leaned on it to steady myself while I caught my breath, I told myself that no, this was not the same as that, as I fully intended to return.

And if you cannot?

The question came to mind unexpected and unbidden.

If I were unable to return from the interview, then in the eyes of my family, it may as well be the same—or perhaps even worse than that. My father and I had corresponded every so often after his departure; in fact, it was a letter I had written to him that ultimately helped me make a new start in America in the first place. My wife and children, if I failed to return, would not have even that small luxury.

I told myself then that I would return, as I was, for the most part, certain the Vice-President would not dare stoop so low as to shoot a man who had his gun aimed in the air.

You believed the same about—

Another point my wife had begun to make earlier, this time during the section of our quarrel where we had been shouting over each other.

I knew exactly who she had been referring to, despite the fact she had not mentioned a name.

And she had been right. I had believed that of him. And because of that, I had advised my eldest son to throw his own first shot away when he engaged in an interview—his first...and his last—less than three years prior.

Was I about to make that same mistake a second time?