That evening, in the attic, Michael’s flashlight landed on a thermos wedged behind a box. He unscrewed the lid—the scent of coffee still lingered faintly, fresh enough to rattle him. Someone had been here recently. Not a ghost of deployment-fueled paranoia, but a living presence under his roof.
At a neighborhood cookout, an older neighbor clapped Michael’s shoulder. “Good to see you back. Your family’s been well cared for.” The words were offered kindly, yet rang like an accusation. Michael forced a smile, but rage simmered. Cared for—by Sarah? Or whom? And why was everyone in on it but him?