Playing With Fire

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

In my dream I'm drowning. It's not the first time. Hell, it's not the one-hundredth time. Even as I blink away the last, paralyzing fragments of the nightmare, I can still feel the cold water clinging to my skin. I look down to see my arms shining with sweat.

Around me the car hums, the gentle vibration of tires on asphalt trying to lull me back to sleep. If you travel far enough for long enough, you develop the uncanny ability to sleep anywhere. Like in a crowded plane, on a noisy bus, even in a two-door rental sedan while your father drives down Highway 70 like he's being chased by armed assassins.

I force myself awake, stretching as much as I'm able to in the cramped car. Reaching for the cooler behind my seat I pull out a red bull and crack it open. Dad doesn't say anything, even though I know he hates me drinking them. I can't tell if he's just distracted by the road or if he's finally given up the fight against my crippling caffeine addiction.

When I've gulped down half the can, he points out my window to a small, wooden sign that reads, Welcome to Havelock. Pardon our noise, it's the sound of freedom.

"We're almost there," he says, as if I should be excited.

Truth is, I kind of am. Sure I'll miss the blistering hot summers and barren deserts of Arizona, oh wait, no. No I won't. Not even a little. I won't miss the heat—and whoever coined the term dry-heat should be shot in the head—I won't miss the crappy little town, and I sure as hell won't miss my friends. Or the people I used to call friends, I should say.

This move might as well be a prison break, as far as I'm concerned. There were worse places we could have ended up besides the small, costal North Carolina town. There were better places too, but hey, beggars can't be choosers.

When we pull up to the gate to the base, I notice a harrier on display to my right. It's angled so it looks like it is just about to land. Or crash. I can't decide which. The guard, looking perfectly disguised in his dark green camouflage uniform, takes one look at the ID badge dad flashes out the window, salutes, and raises the gate, letting us pass through.

We drive in what feels like circles until finally pulling into a skinny driveway.

"You have got to be joking," I whine. Marine Corps Air Station Cherry Point boasts stunning, sea side Officer Housing. I know, I'd looked it up online. Tall, spacious homes overlooking the ocean with big windows and hardwood floors, all generously loaned to the officers stationed there, free of charge. What I'm looking at now is so not on the brochure.

Being a military kid I've lived in a lot of places, seen a lot of things. I've seen impoverished towns in Okinawa and Nigeria. I've seen entire communities made of straw shacks with one communal outhouse. None of that has prepared me for what I'm seeing now—the lowest form of civilization.

Enlisted housing.

I swing a glare at Dad as if lasers might shoot out of my eyes and vaporize him on the spot.

He just shrugs. "Sorry, Farris, I know it doesn't look like much, but officer housing is full because of the renovations. They have some new places coming open that we should be able to get into in about three months."

I snort. "Three months? What, did they bring in the Army Corps of Engineers?"

"Worse. Civilian contractors."

I make a horrified face and he grins.

My father walks around the car, popping open the trunk and tossing my worn green duffel bag into my arms. "But we can make do. I mean, we've been through worse, right kid?"