“No, I have to be at McPherson on Monday morning. And that’s the other thing, I’m just going to McPherson. It’s not like it’s the back side of the moon.” He picked up a rag and wiped away an imaginary smear on the gray countertop. He could see the light at the end of the tunnel, but with Sharon on the warpath it could just as well be a train.

“No, but if you think I’m taking the kids to south Atlanta you’re out of your mind,” she retorted, losing ground and knowing it. She sensed that this was a critical argument and wondered what would happen if she said it was her or the Army. She had thought about it a few times before, but it had never come up. Now she was afraid to ask. What really made her mad was that she understood her emotions and knew she was in the wrong. Her own experiences had poisoned her against the military as a career, but not against the basic call to duty. And it made her wonder what would happen if she faced the same question.

“Hey, I may be commuting. And it may not be for long,” Mike said with a purely Gallic shrug and rubbed his chin. His dark, coarse hair had raised a respectable five-o’clock shadow.

“But you don’t think so,” she countered.

“No, I don’t think so,” he agreed, somberly.

“Why?” She sat down at the kitchen table and cut a bite of the chicken. It was perfectly done; delicious as usual. It tasted like sand in her mouth.

“Well… just say it’s a gut call.” Mike began to fill his own plate. He suspected poulet avec herb was going to be lacking in his diet in the near future.

“But we have the weekend?” she asked taking a sip of the oaky Chardonnay to wash down the wonderful meal in a mouth gone quite dry.

“Yes.”

“Well, let’s see what we can think of to do.” The smile was weak, but at least it was a smile.