I didn’t have an answer for that.
We stood in silence, watching the gulls wheel over the water. The sunlight glinted off the waves, bright enough to hurt.
One year, I thought. One year to make sense of this place, to survive the ghosts and the memories and the silence that already felt too intimate.
4
GIDEON
Irode Daisy hard through the predawn chill, her hooves pounding a steady rhythm on the slick trail. The message burned in my pocket like a live round—Charleston, Dominion Hall. No details, no why. Just orders.
I didn't question. That wasn't my way.
By the time the sun crested the peaks, painting the valleys in pale gold, I'd returned her to Harlan's stable. The old man took the reins without a word, just a nod that said he understood the urgency in my silence. I settled the bill in cash, slung my pack over one shoulder, and hit the road in the battered rental truck I'd left at the trailhead.
Bozeman was a two-hour drive north, the highway cutting through pine forests and open ranges that blurred into one another. I kept the radio off, windows cracked to let the cold bite in and keep me sharp. The truck's engine growled low, a familiar companion on the empty stretches.
Montana faded in the rearview—mountains shrinking to hills, then to flat nothing as I approached the airport. I parkedin long-term, grabbed my pack, and walked in without looking back.
Airports were neutral ground, places where detachment came easy. I moved through the terminal like smoke—check-in at the kiosk, security a rote dance.
No lines at this hour. The place was half-empty, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. I boarded last, as always. Didn't care about seats; they assigned me a middle one on the first leg to Detroit. Fine by me. The aisle guy was a salesman type, already buried in his laptop, and the window was a kid with headphones, staring out at the tarmac.
I wedged in, my frame compressing into the space like a knife into a sheath that didn't quite fit. Knees against the seat in front, shoulders brushing both neighbors. Uncomfortable? Sure. But uncomfortable was my default.
I closed my eyes as the engines revved, the plane lifting off with that familiar lurch. Sleep wasn't the goal. Detachment was.
I let the world recede—the hum of the cabin, the recycled air thick with coffee and pressure. People chattered around me, snippets of lives I didn't care to join: a couple arguing over vacation plans, a businessman on a call about quarterly projections. I observed without engaging, eyes slitted just enough to scan angles, habits ingrained from years of watching.
But beneath it all, the real hunt: glimpses of my father. In every crowd, every reflection—a tall man with broad shoulders striding past a gate, a laugh echoing down the concourse that carried the same timbre. It was obsession, quiet and constant. A shadow I couldn't outrun. He'd vanished without a trace, leaving us boys to piece together the why. I searched faces the way I tracked enemies, hoping for a sign. There were none.
The flight dragged, turbulence jostling us over the plains. I didn't eat, didn't drink. Just breathed steady, mind drifting to the message. Orders were orders.
We touched down in Detroit amid wind gusts, the layover stretching three hours in a terminal that smelled of pretzels and exhaustion. I found a quiet corner gate, away from the clusters of families and suits.
Pulled out my phone, the screen's glow harsh under the lights. No new messages. Good.
I zoomed into a map of the Charleston area, fingers tracing routes. Money wasn't tight—military paychecks stacked up in a plain checking account, no investments, no flair. Modest growth from years of deployments, expenses reimbursed later. Enough for basics.
Inland first: spots west of the city, like Summerville or Moncks Corner. Motels there were cheap, anonymous—chain places with vending machines and ice buckets. Practical.
But my finger hovered, drawn east toward the coast. Water called to me, always had when it was in reach. Remote islands, barriers against the world.
Kiawah Island popped up—secluded, beaches, marshes. Perfect for laying low.
I booked nothing; plans shifted like sand. Just noted a few B&Bs, motels on the fringes. Quiet. Off the path.
Boarding for Charleston came slow. Last on again, middle seat in the back. The plane was fuller this leg—tourists heading south, accents thickening as we taxied. I settled in, eyes closing as we climbed. The detachment settled deeper, the cabin a bubble detached from reality. A baby cried somewhere ahead; I tuned it out. Watched through lashes: a woman scrolling photos, a man sketching in a notebook.
No threats. No father. Just transit, miles eating away at the distance.
Charleston airport hit with humidity the moment the doors opened—thick, salty air that clung like a second skin. I movedwith the flow, pack light on my back: clothes, toiletries. No luggage carousel for me; everything fit in the one bag.
Outside, the cab line snaked under palm trees swaying in the breeze. I took the next yellow sedan, sliding into the back.
The driver was chatty from the jump—local guy, mustache thick, radio murmuring classic rock. "Where to, buddy? Headed to the historic district? Got some great spots downtown—Marriott, Embassy. Clean, central."
I stared out the window as we merged onto the highway, marshes flashing by, water glinting under the late afternoon sun. "Need something cheap. Quiet. Off the beaten path."
