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to the lack of light in the cabin. “Lord Almighty,” he whispered, half in disgust, half in prayer for immediate deliverance.
    Ian wasn’t sure where to rest his eyes first. The small couch was covered with clothes and papers. The coffee table supported a mix of plates and half-empty glasses crowded together; one cup sat so dangerously close to the edge, he couldn’t imagine why it hadn’t toppled off. “Ignore it,” he told himself. “Not your business.” Touching as little as possible, he looked for the closet that likely housed the water heater. There in a pantry separating the living and dining rooms, he found it. The door was blocked with an overflowing trash can and three bags of canned vegetables. Irritation whooshed up from deep inside, but he fought it. He was here to fix the water heater.
    For ten minutes, he moved and moved again the items in his way. Maybe Gruber was a hoarder. He’d heard about those people. But when Ian pulled the cabinet doors open he found . . . nothing. “You gotta be kidding me.” Gruber had room to put things away; he just didn’t do it. When Ian stubbed his toe on yet another bag of unemptied groceries, he exploded. He sailed across the cabin and flung the front door open wide. “Gruber!” Hearing the tension in his voice, he took a breath before continuing. “Need a hand in here.”
    Slowly Gruber stood from the swing and started across the lawn. Ian counted to ten while he waited.
    When the older man stepped inside, Ian’s hands rose in question. “Are you kidding me?”
    Gruber’s bushy brows tilted into a frown.
    Ian gestured around the house. “You’ve got bags of groceries sitting on your floor where you have to step over them while your cabinets are empty.”
    Gruber blinked, the lines around his mouth deepening.
    Ian pointed toward the kitchen. “Don’t you care? Doesn’t it matter to you . . . the state of your home?”
    When Gruber just stood there, Ian moved to the front window. “I can’t work in this.” Years of soldier training had done a number on him. This kind of irresponsibility was unacceptable.
    The window groaned as he opened it. He pulled the curtains open, filling the space with light. Ian moved to the other windows with Gruber standing aside watching him.
    “This morning Charlee showed me the most amazing painting I’ve ever seen.”
    Gruber threaded his hands together, and though he looked a bit like a child being scolded, Ian didn’t stop his rant. “ Your painting, The Storm . I can’t quite assimilate that to this. Where I come from, you take pride in your work.”
    Gruber’s chin rose. “I do take pride in my work.”
    “No. You don’t. Or you’d have more respect for yourself than this.”
    Gruber’s eyes darted around the cabin. “I’ve . . . I guess it’s gotten a bit out of hand, but that’s just how I do things.”
    “Look.” Ian knew his temper had taken over and that could just as easily get him fired as anything, but no one should be okay with this. “It just needs to be picked up. Let’s get it done. I can’t complete my mission until this stuff is out of the way.” Before Gruber could answer, Ian was gathering glasses and dishes and taking them to the sink.
    Gruber carried a trash bag around and silently filled it with papers, crumpled potato chip bags, plastic cups, empty water bottles.
    “While I was deployed, I watched some of the hardest workers in Afghanistan. Know who they were?”
    “The foot soldiers?”
    “No. It was the guys who kept the vehicles clean and running smooth. If you don’t have a vehicle you can count on out there, you’re screwed. Everything fills with dust, sand, dirt. Everything clogs. It’s a constant battle, even when the vehicles are sitting at base. We could do our best work when our vehicles were up to the challenge.”
    Gruber paused, a half sandwich in his hand. “What are you saying?”
    “Well, you’re like that vehicle.”
    He tossed the sandwich in the