"It's not addressed to you, either," Ben countered. "But whatever. I just want to know what they said when you called..." But as the words left his lips, he realized his mistake. He'd a.s.sumed that Greg had been as anxious and worried as he was. "You didn't call." He sidestepped Greg's pathetic attempt to get back that letter even as he moved toward the dirty white phone that hung on the kitchen wall. He picked it up and...Of course. There was no dial tone. What a surprise.

"Phone's out again," Greg said, as if that were the phone company's fault, not his. "Now you give that to me and clean up this-"

Ben hung up the handset with a crash as he stepped out of Greg's reach again. "Phone's out out, because you didn't pay the f.u.c.king bill with the money my brother sent you. Did you pay the rent? At least you paid the rent, right?"

"Don't you dare use that language in my house!"

"It's my my house," Ben shouted. "The only reason the rent gets paid is because Danny sends it every month-for house," Ben shouted. "The only reason the rent gets paid is because Danny sends it every month-for me. me."

"Don't you raise your voice to me, boy!"

"He could be dead-right now!" Ben got even louder as he moved to the other side of the kitchen table. "And I know you don't give a s.h.i.t s.h.i.t about what that means to my mother and me. But here's a newsflash for you. If Danny's dead, he can't send home that money. Have you thought about that?" about what that means to my mother and me. But here's a newsflash for you. If Danny's dead, he can't send home that money. Have you thought about that?"

And in a newsflash of his own, he realized that Greg had had thought about that. But he'd thought about it in terms of the insurance payout Ben's mother would receive if Danny died. He didn't say as much now, but his answer was all over his ugly face. Besides, he'd joked about it in the past, plenty of times. thought about that. But he'd thought about it in terms of the insurance payout Ben's mother would receive if Danny died. He didn't say as much now, but his answer was all over his ugly face. Besides, he'd joked about it in the past, plenty of times. Maybe the kid'll step on a landmine and we'll have the money to start up that restaurant you've been talking about for years...Heh heh... Maybe the kid'll step on a landmine and we'll have the money to start up that restaurant you've been talking about for years...Heh heh...

"You probably spent the afternoon praying that he dies," Ben whispered.

"It would serve you right if he did die," Greg spat as he hit Ben with a slap that stung his face and spun him into the wall. "It wouldn't surprise me one bit if G.o.d punished you for your sins by-"

Ben had had enough. He lowered his head and threw himself forward with a roar, and he hit Greg in the chest with his full weight, which wasn't much, but was more than he'd ever done before.

Normally, he'd just cower and take his beatings.

But now they both went down onto the floor, right into the puddle of orange juice, with Greg kicking and scratching and slapping as Ben tried to keep that letter with its phone number out of the wet, even as he desperately tried to get away.

"I'll beat you, boy," Greg was screaming, showering him with spittle as he grabbed hold of Ben's hair and pulled. "I will beat you within an inch of your-"

Ben elbowed him in the stomach, doing some kicking himself to get free.

His knee must've collided with Greg's b.a.l.l.s, because his stepfather screamed in pain and then started retching, finally letting go of Ben, who scrambled to his feet. He jammed the letter into his pocket as Greg curled, rocking, into a ball. If he'd known it would be that easy to win, he would've fought back years ago.

He had time to open the refrigerator and sweep his entire supply of insulin into a plastic shopping bag. He took the OJ carton, too, because he was still feeling pretty majorly out of body. He picked up the bag of clothes for the girl at the mall-there wasn't time for him to pack anything for himself, which was a shame. And then, as Greg was starting to make more intelligible sounds, Ben went out the front door, letting the screen screech and slap behind him, in one final f.u.c.k you f.u.c.k you.

LANDSTUHL, GERMANY.

MONDAY, 4 M MAY 2009.

This was a bad idea.

Cynthia the nurse lived in a small apartment without a roommate, which meant the collections of teddy bears and Hummel figures and look-a Hummel figure teddy bear-were all hers.

What was she, ten? No, apparently not. There was a mult.i.tude of birthday cards artfully arranged on an end table that sat between a matching sofa and chair-both perkily, neatly floral-printed. Big Three-Oh Big Three-Oh one of the cards said in a cartoon bubble coming out of the mouth of a...wait for it...teddy bear. Yeah. The others were more Hallmarkie. one of the cards said in a cartoon bubble coming out of the mouth of a...wait for it...teddy bear. Yeah. The others were more Hallmarkie. Love and affection for my darling daughter on this special day Love and affection for my darling daughter on this special day kind of stuff. kind of stuff.

There were a dozen of them. Two from her mother, one from her father and stepmother, the rest from aunts and uncles and cousins and friends. It was pretty impressive-the size of her support team. Impressive and nice. A lot of military personnel, himself included, didn't get even one card on their birthdays.

The apartment itself was impeccably clean and neat, and looked like something out of a Pottery Barn catalog. Everything had a place where it belonged, and the artwork on the walls was in perfect harmony with the beflowered furniture.

Of course, maybe she'd rented the place furnished and none of this was hers.

But the tidiness was all Cynthia-no doubt about that. There was no clutter anywhere. Not even a small pile of mail or a book out and open, spine up, on the coffee table. No sneakers kicked off while she watched TV and...Come to think of it, there was no TV.

She'd gotten a phone call right after unlocking the door and letting him in and he'd given her privacy by hanging here in her little living room while she bustled into the kitchen to start cooking dinner.

Izzy now wandered over to a small collection of DVDs and CDs that sat on a shelf beneath the bears. Her music was limited to cla.s.sical. She had a lot of Wagner operas, which was alarming since it was just about the the only form of music that would make him bleed from the ears while going blind. But the Wagner wasn't half as alarming as her DVDs. She had only seven-probably to watch on her laptop-and all were foreign art films, with a heavy emphasis on dramas about suicidal Scandinavians, shot in the dark of a northern winter. only form of music that would make him bleed from the ears while going blind. But the Wagner wasn't half as alarming as her DVDs. She had only seven-probably to watch on her laptop-and all were foreign art films, with a heavy emphasis on dramas about suicidal Scandinavians, shot in the dark of a northern winter.

"Why don't you...um. Do you want to take a shower?" She poked her head out of the kitchen, finally off the phone.

"Oh. Thanks," Izzy said as he moved toward the kitchen, where something was smelling very, very good as it cooked. "But no, I'm good." He stopped short. "At least I think I'm good." He did a quick pit check, but then realized..."Unless it's a thing, like you need me to shower...?"

"No," she said far too quickly, which made him know it was was a thing-she definitely liked men to shower before she had s.e.x with them. a thing-she definitely liked men to shower before she had s.e.x with them.

But that was okay. Clean was fine. It was good.

"How about we both take one after dinner?" he said, and her relief was nearly palpable.

The kitchen was all a maddeningly cheery yellow-and again, everything freaking matched. The only thing missing was a sign saying ZANELLA, LEAVE NOW, BEFORE YOU MAKE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE ZANELLA, LEAVE NOW, BEFORE YOU MAKE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE.

"That sounds...nice," she said.

Nice? Was she kidding? But no, she was just nervous. That made two of them.

"So," he said, searching for something to say. "You collect bears."

She smiled. "It's silly, I know, but my cousin's kids started sending them to me and...They get me one wherever they go."

"That's nice," he said, and G.o.d, now he was doing it, too. But it was true. It was was nice. This apartment was nice. Cynthia was nice. Her family was nice. Nice, nice, nice. nice. This apartment was nice. Cynthia was nice. Her family was nice. Nice, nice, nice.

"Have you lived here long?" he tried.

"Four-no, five years now," she told him as she handed him a gla.s.s of wine that she'd poured for him. She was was lovely, with a body that filled the T-shirt and jeans she had on in a very satisfying way. "I was here for two years before I finally got my things out of storage. Thank G.o.d. That was hard, living out of suitcases..." lovely, with a body that filled the T-shirt and jeans she had on in a very satisfying way. "I was here for two years before I finally got my things out of storage. Thank G.o.d. That was hard, living out of suitcases..."

"For me a suitcase is a luxury," Izzy said, taking a sip. d.a.m.n, it was so sweet he nearly gagged.

"That's terrible," she said. "You must get so tired of it."

"No, actually," he said. "It's the way I...like to roll." Seriously? Had he just said like to roll like to roll?

But she was giving him hero-worship eyes again, and he knew that the shower-after-dinner thing was optional. She was ready and willing to do him right here on the kitchen table.

Of course the wine she was chugging was probably adding to her super-friendly do me even if you're grubby do me even if you're grubby factor. She poured herself another healthy gla.s.s and drank about half of it in one fortifying gulp as she turned to stir what looked like a mix of onions and mushrooms that were sauteing in a pan on the stove. The chicken was cooking on one of those little George Foreman grills, plugged into a power adapter to make it compatible with the German electrical system. factor. She poured herself another healthy gla.s.s and drank about half of it in one fortifying gulp as she turned to stir what looked like a mix of onions and mushrooms that were sauteing in a pan on the stove. The chicken was cooking on one of those little George Foreman grills, plugged into a power adapter to make it compatible with the German electrical system.

Lettuce and other vegetables for a salad were out on the counter and Izzy said, "Oh, good, let me help," mostly in an effort to put down that G.o.d-awful gla.s.s of wine.

"Oh, thanks," she said. "The knives are-"

"I got it," he said, already finding one-it had a yellow handle, natch-and reaching to take a cutting board from where it hung on the wall. He started to cut up a pepper.

"Whenever the teddy bear count gets to ten," she told him, "I take them over to the soldiers at the hospital. The kids send me about one a week, so it doesn't take long."

"That's nice," Izzy said, mentally wincing at his word choice as they fell back into an awkward silence. It was then that he noticed a framed photo of what had to be Cynthia, pre-kindergarten, with her parents. "Are you an only child?"

"I am now," she said. "My little brother died in Iraq, back in 2003."

Ah, c.r.a.p. "I'm sorry," Izzy said.

"It's been...hard," she said. Understatement of the century.

And Izzy put down the knife, because come on. There was no way he was going to have s.e.x with this woman and walk away. Which meant there was no way he was going to have s.e.x with her, period, the end, because walking away was a given.

"So," he said as he turned to face her, leaning back against the counter. "I saw the birthday cards and, um, I'm just kind of thinking, you know, turning thirty can be kind of hard for some people. Traumatic, even. Some people go a little crazy. Do things they normally wouldn't do..."

She laughed. "Well, that's me. Because I never do this." She looked up from stirring what had become a very decadent-smelling sauce to smile ruefully at him. "Never."

No s.h.i.t, Sherlock. "I can understand you wanting to get yourself a birthday present," Izzy told her. "And as far as presents go, I'm pretty exceptional." He'd meant it as a joke, but she didn't laugh. Terrific. "I mean, only if you go for that kind of one-night-then-good-bye thing. I really meant what I said about that. That wasn't code or some kind of doublespeak for maybe I'll stick around maybe I'll stick around. Or maybe I'll call you in a few days maybe I'll call you in a few days. Because I won't. Not a chance. I'm coming off of a fabulously, devastatingly broken heart and...On top of that, I've got a strong hunch that we're actually pretty incompatible. And as long as you're getting yourself a present, well...I would've thought you'd know yourself a little better." He straightened up. "So I'm thinking I should just let myself out, if that's okay."

"Wait." She took the pan off the burner and caught his arm before he could leave the kitchen. And again, just like back in the bar, he had to really work to resist the urge to pull free. "You're just...So sweet."

"Hardly," he said.

"No, you are," she said, and she stood on her toes and kissed him.

She tasted like that wine and he pulled away. She only thought she knew what she wanted. "I gotta go."

Izzy let himself out and ran down the stairs to the street.

He walked all the way back to the base, cursing himself with every step he took, for being the p.u.s.s.y that he was.

Because, G.o.d, his stomach hurt from still wanting-always wanting-Eden.

LAS V VEGAS.

MONDAY, MAY 4, 2009.

The boy who wore makeup-the one named Ben-was in trouble.

He staggered slightly as he came out of the shop that sold absurdly expensive coffee, and he sat down right on the floor, just out of the busy stream of mall traffic.

Neesha moved closer, eating the McFlurry that had been left behind by an impatient woman with three extremely ill-behaved children, and it was only then that she realized Ben was crying.

That wasn't good.

She'd watched the relentless dance between the young people who spent most of their afternoons and evenings at the mall. There were two types-shoppers and walkers. The shoppers came in with a destination in mind, and left soon after, carrying heavy bags of clothing and merchandise.

The walkers were shopping, too, but not for anything that could be bought with money or carried away in bags. They were shopping for power. They were there to reinforce that power, and to be entertained by those who were weaker than they were. They traveled in packs, surrounded by the more moderately powerful who worshipped them, and they all kept constantly moving, searching for their prey.

And it wouldn't be long until one of the packs spotted Ben sitting there.

Crying.

The weakest of the weak.

As Neesha ate her McFlurry, she knew that she should cross the stream of foot traffic to Ben, to tell him he was in danger. But that five-dollar bill he'd given her still made her leery.

But then he looked up and saw her. Wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt, he pulled himself to his feet. He had two plastic bags with him, and as he wove his way through the ladies with baby strollers, he held one of them out to her.

Of course she was already backing away.

"This is for you," he said, his words surprising her completely. He didn't try to come too close, which wasn't a surprise. He knew she was skittish. He just set the bag on the table that she'd moved behind so that something was between them, and then he backed off.

"It's clothes," he said, when she didn't move toward it. "One of my sisters'. It was her stuff. She's kind of gotten bigger, so...I washed it so you'd have something clean to wear."

"I'm not giving you a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b," Neesha said.

"He doesn't want one from you, shortcake, he wants one from me." The boy who startled them both was taller and broader than Ben. He was older by a few years, too. And he was surrounded by three of his minions.

The pack had arrived.

But Ben didn't look away from Neesha. He just briefly closed his eyes. "I'm having a really bad day, Tim. My brother is a Navy SEAL, and I just found out he's been injured in Afghanistan, so back off, okay?"

She didn't know what that was-a Navy SEAL-but the pack leader did.

"A SEAL?" he said. "Yeah, right. Wait, don't tell me-he's gay, too."

Gay she knew. She'd watched plenty of episodes of she knew. She'd watched plenty of episodes of Will & Grace Will & Grace. And she knew that some men came to the prison where she'd been kept, to entertain themselves not with girls or women, but with other men.

"Just leave me alone," Ben said wearily. "Or kiss me on the mouth and pledge your undying love, because this is getting old."

That was not the way the prey addressed the powerful, and the boy named Tim was not happy about that. But a mall security guard had noticed the tension and was heading toward them, which made the pack shift and shuffle their feet, impatient to be off.

And Neesha shifted, too, because she worked very hard to keep the guards from noticing her.

Ben understood, because he pushed the gift he'd brought toward her and whispered, "Go."

On impulse she gestured for him to follow, because the pack was moving, changing, too, heading toward the counter where delicious-smelling cookies were sold.

She could only a.s.sume they tasted as good as they smelled, because no one ever didn't finish one of them.

And Ben hefted the other bag he was carrying and let her lead him toward the sanctuary she'd found some weeks ago. A place where packs of kids and men seldom went-the mall's maternity clothing store.

But halfway there, out of sight of both the guard and the pack, he stopped her. "This is going to sound like bulls.h.i.t," he said, "but do you still have that five dollars I gave you? I had a fight with my stepfather, and my wallet must've fallen out of my pants. I don't have any money and my sister's not at work-she works at that coffee place? She told me she'd be on for this shift, but she's not there and...See, I took the insulin from my refrigerator, but I didn't take any needles, but there're needles-and a phone-at my sister's apartment, and I really should've just gone there, but I thought she'd be here at work and..." He took a deep breath. "Bottom line, I'm freaking out because I think my brother Danny might be dead. I have to get over to my sister's apartment, but I'm feeling really sick-I have diabetes, so it happens sometimes-and I don't think I can walk that far. Even if I take the bus, I'm not sure I can get there without your help, and I definitely can't get there without that five dollars to pay the bus fare."

Neesha looked at him. She didn't understand half of what he'd said. Insulin? Needles? Diabetes she'd heard about. She'd seen commercials on TV. Find the cure! Find the cure! And she understood a dead brother and a missing sister. She also got And she understood a dead brother and a missing sister. She also got I'm feeling really sick I'm feeling really sick, and she could see for herself that Ben was struggling, even just to stay up on his feet.

So she dug the five-dollar bill he'd given to her out of her pocket and held it out for him.

"Thank you," he said, taking it from her and pocketing it himself. "Bus stops at the lower level, center entrance."

He faltered and she moved toward him, to keep him from falling. And they walked that way toward the escalators, her arm around his waist, his around her shoulders. He was heavier than he looked, for someone so skinny. But she was stronger than she she looked, so it was okay. looked, so it was okay.