Rain began to fall, thin silver lines striking the windshield. Mom drove with both hands on the wheel, eyes constantly checking the mirrors. She had changed out of her dress uniform into jeans, boots, and a dark jacket, but she still carried herself like the captain from the auditorium.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To someone I trust.”
“From the Air Force?”
“No,” she said. “From before.”
I had no idea what before meant.
We drove for nearly two hours, leaving streetlights behind for pine forests and empty roads. Finally, Mom turned onto a gravel path almost hidden between trees. Branches scraped the sides of the car. At the end stood a small cabin with no porch light.
The front door opened before we knocked.
A woman in her sixties stood there holding a shotgun like she knew how to use it.
“Well,” she said, lowering the barrel, “Rachel Miller. You picked a hell of a night to come back.”
