“You don’t have to,” I say, letting her off the hook.
She came to every one of Zach’s and my games growing up—or at least every one I remember. I can’t imagine it’s easy going to games, having those memories dragged up each time.
“I’d like to,” she says with a warm smile.
“Well, let me know when you’re coming and I’ll save you a spot up front, right behind the dugout.”
“Do you want to come in?” she asks me.
“I just stopped by to say hi.”
“I’ve got soup and warm bread.”
She holds the door open, so I step through. I won’t stay long. Unlike me, Mrs. Kinkaid doesn’t love solitude. She manages it, but prefers her home full of warmth and noise. It’s the least I can do to give her a piece of my evening.
“I was just sitting down to watchJeopardy!,” she says, lifting her bowl off a tray table to move it to the dining room.
“Let’s watch together,” I suggest.
She smiles, places her bowl back down and moves to the kitchen to serve me a bowl of hot soup. The smell of freshly-baked bread and savory broth fills the kitchen. I take a seat on the stool at the island while Mrs. Kinkaid tears a chunk of bread from the long french loaf. Her movements are like a practiced dance, right down to the way she sets my plate in front of me. I inhale the nutty aroma and then I lift my plateand bowl and follow her into the living room. She sets out a second tray table and clears off a spot at the other end of the sofa for me.
I’m about to sit when my phone rings. It’s a 2-0-2 area code. Washington, DC? Instinctively, I hold my finger up toward Mrs. Kinkaid.
“I’ll be right back. I have to take this.” I hold my cell in the air.
I step out onto the porch and answer the call.
“Hello?” I say.
“Greyson?” a man’s voice asks.
“This is he. Who’s calling?”
“Greyson,” the voice warms. “This is Lieutenant Colonel Stymes, though I’m not with the Army anymore. I’m with FEMA.”
“Hello, sir,” I say.
“Just call me Matthew,” he says. “We’re no longer in need of the formality.”
“Yes, sir. Matthew …” I almost say,Matthew, sir.
My shoulders square and my spine straightens before I even give it a second thought.
He chuckles. “I’m sorry to call you so late.”
The sound of his laughter is like anat ease. My posture softens and I release a breath.
“Isn’t it an hour later there?” I ask him.
I know he’s in Eastern time. I’m assuming he knows I’m in Central.
“An hour later. Yes.” He barely pauses. “I’ll cut right to the chase, Greyson. A position opened up, and I thought of you right away. I understand you went into firefighting after you were discharged.”
“Yes, sir.” I can’t seem to shake the habit of using the term. He doesn’t correct me.
“Well, we’re looking for an Emergency ManagementSpecialist to conduct on-scene assessments and coordinate responses to incidents for our team at FEMA. You came to mind. I’d like to send you the information about the position. We’ll open applications this coming month.”
“You … FEMA … Okay.” I never stutter. This call is entirely unexpected.
