“Mornin’,” I say, handing him a fresh cup of coffee before sitting down to the pile of papers overtaking my desk. “Did you see the text from Mom? Looks like she’s staying with London a little longer in New York.”
Rusty squints and leans toward the laptop screen even though his readers are on. “Sounds like your sister’s divorce is getting nasty.”
“Yeah.” I rub the back of my neck. “Twelve years down the drain, and he blindsided her with the papers. She’s still trying to keep it together for Byrdie.”
Rusty shakes his head. “Damn shame.”
“Hoping Mom’ll be home soon,” I say, taking another sip of coffee. “Jameson has been impossible without Mom here.”
“Everyone is impossible without your mother here.”
I scan the heap of statements and bills in front of me, but my eyes drift back to the letter from Veterans Affairs that has been sitting on top since last week. The words stamped in blaring red ink penetrate to my core every time I see them.
Notification of Funding Termination—VA Grant #73921
I don’t bother to read the rest.
“You need to file that letter,” Rusty says. “What’s done is done.”
“Sixty days—the end of August,” I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “We’ve been receiving this grant for the past five years, meeting their criteria, changing lives, and just like that, they pull the plug.”
“That’s what happens when the government gets to reallocate funds.”
I scoff. “Absolute bullshit.”
“Throw it away.”
“What if …” I stare at the letter, so close to crumpling it up. “I mean, how many appeals go through?”
Rusty is quiet for a beat. “Less than one percent.”
“That’s what I thought.”
It isn’t fair.
My parents and I rebuilt Firebird Ranch, turning it from a sprawling estate a movie star no longer wanted, into a safe haven for those at the end of their military careers. Veterans who come through our gates are broken, hopeless, and desperate for a second chance and the help they need to get back on their feet.
Veterans like me.
And now the government is washing their hands of us like we are nothing more than a line item in a budget cut.
My fingers curl into fists. “I’m not sure what the hell we’re going to do, but at least I have a little time to think of something.”
I glance up and meet Rusty’s gaze.
He’s calm, too calm.
“We might have a solution,” he says, running his fingers over his silver beard.
I tilt my head. “We?”
“C’mon.” Rusty pushes up from his seat and motions for me to follow him. “I’m going to have Topper tell you.”
“Tell me?” I set my coffee down and follow him. “Tell me what?”
Rusty opens the front door. “It will soften the blow if it comes from him.”
“Wait, what? Soften what blow?”
