One September Morning. Rosalind Noonan

if the town of Greendale is more than a tad disappointing. Yes, it’s close to the base, but it’s not so much a town as a cluster of one-story storefronts offering tire service, pawn shops, fast food establishments, and OTB. She might be a desperate housewife, but this place is no Wisteria Lane.

      She rolls past another street, this one with a twisted sign surrounded by laurel leaves. But before she can eyeball the name of the street, her eyes flit over to a group of kids, eight or maybe a dozen if the ones sitting on the concrete sign that says WELCOME TO GREENDALE are a part of the group. The kids are milling around the spit of lawn between the convenience store and gas station, holding signs that say “WE NEVER DECLARED WAR!” and “GET OUT OF IRAQ!” and “VOLDEMORT FOR REPUBLICAN PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE!”

      Hmmm. At last, some signs she can read.

      And right in the center of the goths with their fluorescent orange hair, pierced noses, and thick, charred black eyes is a thin blond waif waving a sign against the spanking blue sky.

      Suz narrows her eyes in recognition. That’s Madison Stanton, Abby’s sister-in-law. Abby’s in-laws are all-army—good people. Suz knows because Madison’s mom, Sharice, really extended herself when Scott was killed, cooking for her, helping her tidy the house and send out thank-yous, sending Madison over to sit for Sofia. Yeah, the Stantons are good people, but they’re going to freak when they find out about this.

      She pulls into the convenience store parking lot and heads inside to ask directions, smiling slightly at the chorus of “Give Peace a Chance” from the small green mall behind her. Kids! If only it were that simple.

      Inside the store she winces over the long line but heads over to the wall of fridges to grab a drink, so she’s not asking directions without patronizing the place. Water is better for the bod, but she snags a Diet Coke with every intention of getting jacked up on caffeine. She’s addicted for sure, but at least it’s legal.

      She joins the line behind a large teenage boy who appears coy behind his scruffy hair, and begins the internal debate of where Scott would want Sofia and her to live. He’d always joked that they could return to Oklahoma, but that was a joke, wasn’t it? Especially the part about living in his parents’ basement? Suz sighs. She knows her parents would take her and Sofia in in a heartbeat, and wouldn’t it be so reassuring to tumble into their arms and leave the big choices to them, as well as the electric bill? That would be a huge relief. Her parents and Scott’s could help with Sofia while she worked—but at what kind of job? Stocking shelves in the Wal-Mart or waiting tables at the diner? And all the while Suz knew she would just be itching for escape, some star to hitch on to, some other way to get the hell out of Oklahoma.

      As the teenage boy points to something behind the counter, Suz presses the cool can of soda to one cheek. No, no, no…she can’t go backward. Got to move forward.

      But does that mean an apartment at the edge of the military base? In a town like Greendale, where their yard might back up on a pawn shop? Where most of the neighbors will come and go with their two-to three-year tours of duty?

      The store clerk, a broad man with a military buzz cut and bulldog jowls, has some issue with the teenage boy. The man reaches under the counter and slides out a wooden baseball bat. “No ID, no cigarettes, kid,” he says, sliding one palm menacingly over the smooth wood of the bat. “Now don’t be giving me any trouble, or I’ll whoop you from here to the Canadian border.”

      The sight of the bat, solid and deadly, sends a tingle of alarm running down Suz’s spine. It would be crazy to start a fight with it, and yet she’s not convinced that this man wouldn’t take a swing.

      “No trouble,” the kid says, rubbing the back of his neck. With his broad shoulders and doughy face, the teddy bear of a boy clearly out-sizes the man, but his fear is palpable. “I told you, they’re for my old man.”

      “Yeah? Then let your old man come in and buy his own cancer sticks,” the clerk says before mumbling something Suz can’t discern under his breath.

      “Then I’ll just take this.” The teenage boy gestures to the two long sticks of taffy and bottle of water on the counter.

      “Yeah, okay,” the man with the square jaw and shaved head grunts. “That’s two ninety-nine, and I’m happy to keep the change.” He snatches a five-dollar bill out of the kid’s hand and points him toward the door. “Now get the hell out of my store, you and your liberal-ass friends, and don’t come back. This is a marine you’re insulting with your asinine protest.”

      “Sorry, man, but you’re kidding, right?” The teenager squints, frown lines obvious in his forehead. “What about my money?”

      “It’s mine now,” the store owner growls. “And I’m not your man. That would be sir to you.”

      Suz steps back, her head down, one hand closing over the cell phone in her pocket. She will not allow this kid to take a beating, even if she has to call 911 or fling a bag of frozen peas at the man.

      “Okay…” The kid backs away warily, as if the store clerk might snap at any minute.

      Which he does.

      “Now get the hell out of here!” the clerk growls, raising the baseball bat high and revealing pumped, tattooed biceps.

      The boy tries to gather his purchases and flee. As he scrambles toward the door, a stick of taffy drops to the floor but he leaves it behind. Better to lose part of his purchase than a quadrant of his brain, Suz thinks.

      As soon as the kid is gone, the man chuckles and slides the bat out of sight. “Wimpy kids. Can’t even get a fight out of ’em anymore.”

      “He was frightened,” Suz says, nodding toward the bat. “I hope you really wouldn’t use that thing.”

      “Only when necessary,” he says, a gold tooth glinting from the back of his mouth as he smiles and rubs his hands together. “Though I’ve done some damage in my day. Now, what can I get you?”

      “Just the soda,” she says. “And a promise that you’ll stop torturing America’s youth.”

      He scowls at her. “Just the soda, then.” He rings it up. “Don’t you know caffeinated beverages are bad for you? Put pits in your bones.”

      “So I’ve heard.” With the sorry state of her life, a few holes in her bones are the least of her worries. She hands him two dollars and wonders if this man, who reminds her of one of her sergeants in basic training, will steal her change, too. Forget about asking directions to NW Walnut. When her time in base housing is up, she’s going to take Sofia and move on…north toward Seattle.

      Get the hell out of the military.

      She doesn’t need Colonel Major Buzz Cut–types barking orders at her anymore.

      When she returns to her car, two of the teens from the protest group approach her.

      “Could you spare some change for the liberation of the oppressed?” the boy asks. Scarecrow thin, with stringy hair dyed fiery orange, he delivers the line with the futile tone of someone who expects to be rejected.

      “We’re working for peace,” the girl beside him says, with more enthusiasm. “If you could spare a quarter or even a dime…we’re using the money to pay for poster board and supplies and stuff.”

      Suz looks to the scattered group beyond the two kids, where Madison Stanton and another girl are listening to Teddy Bear Boy’s horror story about the clerk with the baseball bat. Madison makes eye contact, then looks away, as if caught in the act of committing a crime.

      “Nope, no money.” Suz turns to her car and locks the door. “But I will give you a hand.” She walks past the kids to the stack of signs leaning against the brick posts that bear the WELCOME TO GREENDALE sign. She can feel the kids watching her as she picks through their poster boards and lifts a square of cardboard decorated with flowers drawn by marker. “Where have all the WMDs gone,” she reads aloud. “My question exactly.”

      Madison’s