There was nothing luxurious about the place. The dining chairs did not match. One corner of the living-room rug curled upward no matter how often Angela pressed it flat. Lucas's books crowded two narrow shelves above the television, and the refrigerator door was covered with spelling lists, appointment reminders, faded photographs, and a drawing of a soldier with four oversized silver stars. His mother kept meaning to replace the kitchen faucet, which squeaked when turned to cold, but there was always something more urgent.
The modest apartment was partly a matter of convenience. The family had relocated repeatedly over the years, and Angela had wanted a manageable home close to the hospital and Lucas's school while Vincent's assignments kept changing. It was also a matter of choice. Vincent Hughes had grown up in a two-bedroom house with a leaking roof and parents who measured wealth by whether every child had enough to eat and enough love to feel safe. Now, even with the responsibilities and privileges that accompanied his rank, he disliked anything that made his family feel like an exhibit.
Lucas knew that his father was important. He had seen people stand when Vincent entered a room, had noticed the way officers became especially careful with their words, and had once watched a television broadcast in which his father stood several places behind the president during a ceremony. But to Lucas, Vincent was also the man who burned toast, lost at video games, and turned washing dishes into mock military operations.
"Operation Clean Kitchen begins at eighteen hundred hours," Vincent would announce, handing Lucas a towel. "Objective: no plates left behind."
"What about reconnaissance?" Lucas would ask.
"Excellent question, Sergeant. Check beneath the sofa for missing forks."
Those were the memories Lucas reached for whenever Vincent was away. He had been in South Korea for several weeks on official travel, with calls limited by meetings and the time difference. The evening before, Vincent had promised he would try to be home for the school career day on Friday. Try was a word the Hughes family understood too well. It meant he wanted to be there and that sometimes wanting was not enough.
On Thursday morning Angela stood in the kitchen wearing hospital scrubs, one hand holding her phone and the other turning the pages of a patient schedule. Dr. Angela Hughes was a pediatric surgeon at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. She could remain steady through the longest, most difficult operations, but she could never remain steady when Lucas could not find his school shoes.
"Where are the blue ones?" she asked without looking up.
"By the couch."
"Where they belong?"
"Near where they belong."
She gave him a look over the rim of her coffee mug, and Lucas grinned. Then the phone on the counter chimed. Vincent's face appeared on the screen, slightly grainy, with pale light coming through a window behind him. He was wearing a plain dark sweater. If someone had walked into the kitchen and glanced at the screen, they might have mistaken him for a traveling consultant.