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"I am."

"Good."

The barbecue tent is still busy, but the lunch rush has eased enough that we don't have to wait long. I grab two plates. Diego looks over the choices.

"Brisket or pulled pork?"

"Both?"

I look at him. He looks back. Then I smile. "Definitely my son." The words come out before I think about them. Diego goes still. So do I. Then his mouth curves.

"Good answer?"

"The right one." Something inside me settles, just a little. I fill both plates.

We find an empty picnic table near the edge of the field. For the first minute, we eat. I'm grateful for that. Feeding him is easy. Talking to him is harder. Not because I don't have anything to say, but because I have twelve years' worth. I could ask a hundred questions before he finishes his first bite. Instead, I pick one.

"How was the drive?"

"Not bad."

"You come straight through?"

"Stopped once."

"Traffic?"

"Some outside Hartford." I nod. I'm discussing traffic with my son. And somehow it feels important.

Diego takes another bite of brisket. "This is really good."

"Cole smoked it."

"Cole?"

"One of the guys here."

Diego looks around the farm. "So everybody who works here is a veteran?"

"Not everybody. A lot are."

"What do they do?"

"Depends on what they need. Job training. Therapy. Working with the animals. Growing food. Sometimes just having somewhere to show up."

He looks toward the greenhouse. "And you run it?"

"Jack and I do."

"The guy who found me?"

"Yeah."

"He seems nice."

"Don't tell him that."

Diego smiles. "He said you two served together."