“Flipping them too early, Ryan!” Commander Hayes shouted from a lawn chair, a cold beer resting on his knee. He was in civilian clothes, looking suspiciously relaxed for a man who had spent the last half-year dismantling a shadow government.
Ryan leaned heavily on a black, carbon-fiber cane, manipulating the grill tongs with his free hand. He wore board shorts and a t-shirt. The golden Trident was gone, replaced by a jagged, purple scar that ran down his hip, visible when the wind caught his shirt.
“If you want charcoal briquettes, Commander, I’ll leave them on,” Ryan shot back, grinning. “If you want a medium-rare masterpiece, you let the master work.”
My mother walked out of the sliding glass door, carrying a tray of potato salad. She wore jeans and a simple blouse. No pearls. No makeup. The haughty, image-obsessed woman who had banished me to the bleachers was gone. In her place was someone quieter, someone broken who was slowly learning how to glue the pieces back together. She visited my father in prison every Sunday. She never spoke of it, but the gray in her hair told the story of the toll it took.
