Page 2 of Metal & Mud

Her stomach lurched with fresh dread when she spotted her older sister waiting at the bottom of the steps. Jess, the blonde Amazon, with broad shoulders filling out an Army hoodie, stood watching Sabby approach, her expression stony.

“When did you get in?” Sabby tried for casual, but it came out shaky.

“About an hour after you snuck out for a concert,” Jess replied, arms folded across her chest. “Haven’t been home in months, missed Thanksgiving because of a last-minute duty assignment, and my welcome home is a frantic night with Mom and Dad while they track you down. Then a call at one in the morning saying you’ve been arrested. Again.”

“It wasn’t my fault!” Sabby said quickly.

Jess held up a hand. “Enough. You used a fake ID, and you got in a brawl in a twenty-one-and-up club. Mom and Dad have had it, Sabby. They’re done.”

“What do you mean, done?” A trickle of panic snaked through her, making her heart pound. Jess’s silence terrified her. “Jess?”

She swallowed. “They’ve kicked you out, Sabby. You’re eighteen now. They decided you need to fend for yourself.”

The words struck home like a punch to the gut. Sabby’s bravado crumbled as tears pricked her eyes. When Jess pulled her in for a hug, she broke down. All the fights, the anger, the concert buzz and adrenaline gushed out as she sobbed in her sister’s arms.

Eventually, her tears slowed. “What am I going to do?” she whispered.

Jess released her gently and took Sabby by the hand, guiding her toward her truck. “First, we get you an energy drink and some breakfast. Then, you get your butt to school.”

Sabby looked up at the old F-150—practical and reliable, built for anything. Exactly like Jess. “You brought me clothes?” she asked, noticing a bag in the back.

“Yeah. I’m not letting you go in there half-dressed.” Jess gestured for Sabby to climb in, and they both buckled up.

“Then what?” Sabby asked. “One more semester of high school… Where am I supposed to live?”

Jess started the engine. “I need to make a few calls, see what my chain of command says. I don’t know all the rules by heart. But I might be able to get permission for you to stay with me on base, at least until you graduate.”

That idea seized Sabby with a fresh jolt of uncertainty. “Where even is that?”

Jess pulled out onto the road, drumming her fingers on the wheel as they drove into the creeping daylight. “Fort Whitefield. It’s small, it’s quiet, and you’ll probably be bored out of your mind. But I promise you one thing.” She glanced over, meeting Sabby’s eyes with quiet resolve. “I won’t give up on you. It’ll be a home.”

* * *

1

LOGAN

Logan Goodman stepped out of his truck and surveyed the plain brick building, heat settling over him like a heavy blanket. He was used to humidity from his childhood in Florida, but the past few months in Georgia had taught him real summer misery. At least now he had a different kind of heat to deal with, and he refused to think too far ahead about whatever came next. He had enough on his mind just reporting in to his first real unit. He took a quick glance at the glass door, making sure his uniform was squared away. Drill Sergeant habits died hard.

Before he could reach for the handle, a bald-headed man stuck his head out from an open window. “Hey, you the new private HQ warned us about?” The man’s rank patch showed he was a Specialist, and he seemed to have no problem leaning on sarcasm. “Get inside. The Major won’t wait all day.”

Logan hustled through the doorway into the company offices and introduced himself. “Logan Goodman,” he said, offering a folder. “Who do I give this to?”

“Me,” the Specialist replied, snatching the file. “Name’s Crews—company clerk, all-around fix-it guy. I keep this place running.” He paused, glancing over Logan’s paperwork. But before he could say more, a deep voice from a nearby office cut him off.

“Crews talks big,” came the voice, “but he usually causes more trouble than not.” The speaker was a tall, imposing man who had the air of authority and the label First Sergeant on his uniform. Logan snapped to parade rest by sheer instinct.

“At ease, Goodman,” the First Sergeant said with a small chuckle. “Let’s have you see the CO first. He’s got a meeting soon, so hurry up.”

Crews winked at Logan as the First Sergeant led him to a small office. Major Kirk, the commanding officer, sat behind a plain desk. His brown hair, bordering on a shaggy cut, made him look more like a laid-back coach than the crisp officers Logan had mostly seen at training. A large West Point diploma hung on the wall, along with a black and gold Army jersey. Something about the contrast of formality and relaxed style caught Logan off guard.

“Private First Class Logan Goodman, reporting,” Logan announced, saluting. The Major’s return was casual but precise, and he motioned for Logan to sit.

“Good to meet you, Goodman,” Major Kirk said. “You’re already a PFC, which tells me you’ve got some education under your belt.”

“Yes, sir. I have my bachelor’s in Mathematics from the University of Miami.”

“And you decided not to go officer route?”

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