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so that they would weave their branches together and shelter us from sudden rain, how he carried me on his back to check the wards every day, found broken birds and gave them life again, put a hand on Mother’s wrist and all her anger drained away. Anyone who could take Mother’s shaking and transform it into peace could surely tame the whole world. So I walked like him and practiced his gestures, frowned when he frowned and memorized everything he said. I listened to my blood and the secrets it told my heart, and I promised myself I would someday be as inseparable from nature as Arthur was. That I could hold the keep as strongly and peaceably as he did.
    I hadn’t expected to have to prove it so soon.
    But as I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, I smiled. Donna had seen him in me, and for once I hadn’t even been trying.

WILL
    No matter how much gum I chewed, seconds after spitting it out the taste was back. Mud monster. I might as well have been sucking dirty pennies all morning.
    As soon as we got home from church, Mom began ordering us around as if she was the drill sergeant instead of Dad. I didn’t see any clutter or dirt, but Mom pointed at shelves to be dusted, stairs to be vacuumed, ceiling fans with tiny cobwebs between their blades. I said Ben wouldn’t notice a spotless house if it bit him on the ass.
    Dad clapped me on both shoulders and told me to man up. To stop aggravating my mother. That Ben had been in arid mountains for a year and yes, by God, he would definitely appreciate some clean floors. Then Dad disappeared into the kitchen and returned with an apron. He threw it at my chest, ruffles and all. I tied it around my neck and watched the flowery folds spill down. Mom tied it around my waist. A tiny smile brought out the dimple in her cheek. She brushed her hands down the material and arched her eyebrows at me.
    A sweaty hour later, we’d done everything we could. I discovered that dusting the ceiling was a great way to ignore unbelievably weird memories.
    Mom still stood in the center of the living room with a pinched forehead. I took her hand and sat her down in the breakfast nook. Dad made her a mimosa. He didn’t make one for himself, and I half wished he would. He hadn’t had a drink in over a year. Mom offered me a sip to calm my nerves, but a quick glance at Dad had me grinning and promising I wasn’t nervous at all.
    Dad’s phone rang just then.
    Mom and I paused as he slid it from his pocket.
    His tight mouth stretched into a smile as he answered. “Afternoon, Marine.”
    Mom came to clutch my hand. We’d stood right here in the middle of the kitchen almost a year ago. While Dad talked on the phone to the police about Aaron.
    But now Dad laughed. The sound rolled through Mom, tightening her fingers. “I’ll get in the car in about forty-five minutes, son. How’s spaghetti sound?” He nodded, still smiling, and when he hung up he turned to us. “Ben sounds great. He’s boarding his connecting flight in Cincinnati, and”—Dad stepped forward and took Mom’s other hand—“spaghetti sounds great.”
    We’d all known it would. Ben had emailed from Kabul two months ago saying he was craving it.
    “Maybe we should all go, greet him the moment he gets off the plane,” Mom said.
    I groaned.
    Dad snapped a glare at me but only said, “Let’s have our reunion here in our home.” He walked into the living room, and we heard him fiddling with the CD player. A moment later, the low-key Sinatra that Mom loved followed him back into the kitchen. He bowed formally to her, shoulders sharp and hands folded like he was wearing his dress blues. Mom laughed and put out her hands. He swept her into a gentle dance.
    It was nice to watch. Really nice.
    I started pulling out spaghetti ingredients and stationed myself at the chopping board. And used every chance to pop small chunks of onion into my mouth. Raw onion was pretty nasty, but it got rid of the mud monster longer than gum.
    The sauce