Page 2 of Big Risks

"I'm hoping for the same outcome," I say. "Minus the husband part. I'm on an indefinite break from relationships."

"Well, I should warn you, the single ladies outnumber eligible men about four to one around here. Although—" She breaks off, grinning. "There is Walker Hayes. He came back from the Army a few years ago. Keeps to himself mostly, but Lord have mercy, that man could make a statue blush."

"I'll be sure to maintain my composure if I run into him," I laugh. "But seriously, I'm not looking. This year is about fixing up this house and figuring out what I want to do next. Career-wise, I mean."

Becky stands, brushing off her jeans. "Well, the urgent care in town is always hiring if you want to keep your nursing skills sharp. But if you want something temporary, the elementary school nurse is about to go on maternity leave, so they will be looking to fill that spot through the end of the school year. Also, if you need anything, sugar, power tools, or local gossip, I'm just down the road."

After she leaves, I tackle a few more boxes before exhaustion catches up with me. The house is quiet in a way that's both peaceful and slightly unnerving after years of city living. Asdarkness falls, I realize I haven't located the box with lamps yet. Rather than rummage through everything, I grab my phone and use its flashlight to guide me upstairs.

When I'm halfway up, I notice a small cord hanging from the ceiling at the top of the landing. Curious, I pull it, and a set of wooden stairs unfolds with a groan. The attic. I wasn't even sure the house had one.

Common sense says to leave attic exploration for daylight hours, but I've spent years running toward emergencies while others ran away. Curiosity is my default setting and I’ve never lived in a house with an attic, so I don’t know what to expect.

The attic is surprisingly large, with a pitched ceiling and small windows at either end, letting in faint moonlight. My flashlight beam catches dust motes and cobwebs as I step carefully across the floorboards.

The space is mostly empty except for a few forgotten items: an ancient-looking rocking chair, and some Christmas decorations. Though when I swing my light back, I see a wooden chest tucked under the eaves.

It's beautiful, made of dark wood with brass fittings, about the size of a small coffee table. Not locked, just latched. Hesitating, I feel like an intruder in my own house.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter to myself. "It's my attic now."

The lid opens with a creak. Inside, on top of old photos and keepsakes, is a bundle of letters tied with faded green twine. Military green. The paper has yellowed with age, but the handwriting is neat and precise.

I shouldn't read someone else's private correspondence. That's what the ethical part of my brain says. But the part that stayed up past bedtime with a flashlight and novels as a kid is already untying the twine.

The top letter is about eight years ago.

Dear Red,

They say Afghanistan is beautiful. Maybe it is somewhere beyond the wire and the mountains where we patrol. I wouldn't know. Three months deployed and all I've seen is the inside of our base and the same stretch of godforsaken desert.

The guys in my unit have nicknames for everyone back home. You're "Red" to them now too because of that copper hair I described. They ask if I've heard from you yet. When I tell them the internet connection is spotty, they nod like they believe me.

But I keep writing anyway. Maybe that makes me a fool. Or maybe it's just that out here, with death so close you can smell it like the rain, the thought of you is the only thing that feels like home.

I'll try again tomorrow to find words that might make you write back.

Still yours,

James

I sit back on my heels with a strange ache in my chest. Who was Red? Why didn't she write back to this James who wrote with such raw longing?

After carefully refolding the letter, I tie the bundle back exactly as I found it. I close the chest, suddenly feeling like I've intruded on something intensely private. Tomorrow, in daylight, I'll decide what to do with them.

Back in my bedroom, I lie on freshly made sheets, listening to the unfamiliar creaks and sighs of my new home. My phone buzzes with a text from my mother.

Mom:Have you been murdered by hillbillies yet?

I smile despite myself.

Me:Not yet. House is perfect. Will call tomorrow.

Setting my phone aside, I stare at the ceiling. For the first time in months, I'm not thinking about the past, the patients I couldn't save, or the sight of walking in on my boyfriend andmy roommate. Instead, I'm wondering about James and his unanswered letters to Red.

It's not much, but it's something new. A curiosity that doesn't hurt, and a mystery with no life-or-death consequences.

As I drift toward sleep, I realize I'm actually looking forward to tomorrow. In my line of work, that's been a rare feeling indeed.

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