Land Where Our Fathers Died

1: March 14, 2020

Spring had arrived in Washington, D.C. at last. Cicadas buzzed in the grass, birds chirped from the pink cherry trees in full bloom, light breezes smelling of earth and flowers floated around, and the sky showed not a hint of rain.

Windows were flung open wide and tourists came in by the busload to visit the nation's capital, each with a camera at the ready.

Work in the federal government buildings was just as heavy as ever, new arguments and topics causing the usual rifts between political parties.

Sitting on the steps of the Jefferson Monument was a girl of nineteen, a thick stack of papers on her lap and a pen in her hand. Idly, she brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear and scribbled a mark down on the paper in front of her.

Muttering to herself, she tapped the pen on her lips, thinking, lifting her eyes to stare out in front of her. But there was something in her eyes that suggested she wasn't quite seeing the real world.

To any onlooker, she was just a student working diligently on a project of some sort. From the way she kept turning to stare at the statue of Thomas Jefferson, anyone who knew their history would guess she was working on an essay or project of sorts about the third president of the United States of America.

That was far from the truth.

Student as she was, the girl was not working on anything meant for academic purposes. She was busy making the final corrections her editor had suggested.

Normally, she went head to head with editors about the changes they attempted to force on her and her creations. But this was her first play, so she obeyed nearly every correction her editor, who had much more experience than her, had marked on the script.

Humming lightly to herself, she made yet another mark on the script. A light ding! from her phone made her pause in her diligent editing. She dug her phone from her pocket, writing herself a note on the side of the script.

The girl glanced at her phone to find a text from the one person (other than her editor) she tolerated interrupting her during the writing and editing phases—the boyfriend she'd been with for five years.

Her eyes scanned over the text and she slowly began to pack up her work, pasting a sticky note to the page she was on and putting the pages back in the correct order. She clipped them together, returned them to their folder, slung her bag over her back and began to descend the steps, casting one last glance at Jefferson as she went.

Folder pressed to her chest, she strode down the path, trying to decide if she wanted to stop at a coffee shop or just head straight back to her apartment to input the changes she'd made on the paper script to the digital version.

Her feet decided for her, veering toward the coffee shop she frequented with the most amazing food. Out of the bright blueness of the sky came—

"Pepper!"

The girl turned at the sound of the voice, which she found familiar but couldn't quite place.

The figure who had spoken ran closer. "Hey! Been a while! How've you been?"

Pepper found her mind blank. What is this guy's name? "Yes, it has," she agreed, trying to think of who the person in front of her was. "I've been well, how about you?" Please reveal something about you...

"Well," the man said. "We've done well. A few hardships here and there, but..."

"Ah, well, everyone has hardships once and a while."

The man chuckled. "I see Mrs. Alstone left a big impression on you."

Grabbing at the information, Pepper smiled. "Yes, yes, she did." Mrs. Alstone was the history teacher everyone had loved back in high school—but that had been when Pepper lived in Philadelphia. Who was this man and how did he know her?

He smiled. "I can see you don't quite remember me."

Flushing, Pepper confessed, "Not really, no. I know I should know you, but..."

"Mr. Lorse," he said, holding out his hand. "Your ninth-grade algebra teacher."

The name clicked. A memory of Mr. Silas Lorse brandishing a faux rapier and pointing at the board with it, ushering students to answer the problem on it, fell into place and Pepper laughed aloud. "Mr. Lorse! The Algebra Knight!"

Mr. Lorse grinned. "Righto, Miss Regent!"

"Well, I'm afraid math was never my favorite subject, Mr. Lorse. Could be why I only slightly remembered you."

"I hear you graduated with high honors in every class," Mr. Lorse said. "Ms. Hall and Mrs. Podaski were very proud of you."

Tears shimmered in Pepper's eyes. Ms. Hall was her ninth-grade English teacher, the woman had helped her edit and publish her first book. And Mrs. Podaski had been the first to believe in her, even as a seventh-grader with nothing but a dream in her head. She credited most of her success to those two English teachers.

"How are they?" Pepper asked. "With all my projects and works, I hardly have time to speak with them."

"They are well," Mr. Lorse assured her. "And they both buy every new book you get out on the shelves."

Pepper felt a small sense of pride growing in her heart. "Give them my thanks, please," she said. When her old teacher nodded, she continued, "Anyway, the next piece isn't a book - it's a play."

"A play! By golly, Pepper! You never do stop, do you?"

"Afraid not," Pepper said with a grin.

"And I'm sure neither Mrs. Podaski or Ms. Hall would want it any other way," Mr. Lores promised her.

"Or my readers. I can't even begin to count the number of emails I get daily!" Pepper exclaimed, eliciting a laugh from Mr. Lores. When his laugh died down, she said, "Well, I should be off. I have to get this edited and get to work on my American History project.

Mr. Lores nodded. "Still devoted to your studies, I see!"

Chuckling lightly and her feet turning away from him, she replied, "Always, Mr. Lorse. Always."