Chapter 43

Forty-Three

On the ride back to the cirque, we learn the soldier's name is Greg Stonewall. He's in his late thirties and obviously wrestling with his demons, but he's taking a chance with us. He chose to live, and I respect the hell out of him for it. Here, the only information we know about war is what the newspapers tell us, but that all pales in comparison to the reality of it. Roger, as a doctor, should have been drafted and sent to help, but he paid someone off to go in his place. I hated him for that, not because he got out of going, but because I wanted him to go and possibly never come back. It would have been a reprieve. If that makes me a terrible person, then so be it.

This man, however, doesn't deserve the demons plaguing him. I can see it in his eyes. He's a good person, or at least he tries to be.

When the soldiers returned from war, they were celebrated as heroes. It wasn't their fault that they were sent overseas, but it was their fault that they won. I can't remember how many lives were lost, but it was a lot. Roger never let me read the paper for too long, so I couldn't get a thorough image of it in my mind, but I know it was bad. We all know it was bad. Those of us who didn't have to go were left with the information that someone else was fighting for us, and for what? The terrible people that many of us are? I never understood it, but I hadn't experienced freedom the same way others had.

Now, here is this man, a survivor of that war, but can one really call it surviving? The government brought these men home with their phantoms and demons and expected them to go back to normal life. They didn't help them in any way, and it wouldn't surprise me if Greg wasn't the first to stare down the barrel of a gun.

What I wonder, though, is how he got a joker card.

I'm sitting in the back with Greg and Club, while Spade, Diamond, and Heart sit in the front. I'm no stranger to the process of the joker card, as Hilda gave me my own so long ago, but this man doesn't look like the kind to come to a circus, especially since he'd been to war.

We already introduced ourselves and went through the motions, but we fell into silence after. When I glance over at him, Greg looks back at me with bright eyes, something in them speaking of hope.

"So have you ever been to Cirque Obscurum before?" I ask, having already lifted my mask. There's no longer any need to hide my identity with him.

He shakes his head. "No. Never."

I hum under my breath, curious. "Where did you get the card?"

"The card?" he asks.

"Yes, the joker card." I pull out the pristine card and hold it up. "This one. It's how you called us."

He glances at the card and away. "Can I keep it?"

I hesitate and look up at Diamond in the mirror.

"It's usually meant for us to take it," Diamond says, "but it's not mandatory."

Greg nods gratefully and takes it from me with a shaking hand. "You want to know where I got it?" When I nod, he sighs. "I didn't actually know it would call . . . people. I thought . . . Well, I thought I'd see my buddy again. We fought together overseas. His name was Edmond Ford. We just called him Ed."

"Edmond Ford?" Diamond repeats, something in his tone catching our attention.

"You knew him?" I ask.

Diamond nods. "He was a teenager at the cirque when I was a kid, but I didn't have much interaction with him. He left a few years after he came of age." His eyes meet mine in the mirror. "I guess we know where he went."

Greg nods. "Ed was a great man, always helping out and making sure we were safe and accounted for. We became close, and one night after we'd had a bit too much to drink, he handed me that card and told me not to lose it. He said it would come in handy when I needed it, and all I had to do was hold it and help would come. I always thought he meant like . . . theoretically, not actual help." He tucks the card into his breast pocket and pats it. "Anyways, he died the next morning. Bomb dropped on us. I was lucky enough to be out at the wall. Ed? Not so much."

His words are pained, as if the memory itself carries a heavy weight. I don't doubt it does. He speaks of Ed in a particular way, as if they were brothers. Losing someone like that sticks with you.

I pat his knee. "Even in death, Ed is taking care of you," I tell him. "And now it's our turn to do the same."

When we arrive at the cirque, there's a welcome party waiting for us. Since the kids arrived, it's been like this. They wake and realize we're gone, then they wait until we return safely, both to make sure we're okay and to help whoever comes with us. Sometimes, it's no one. Lately, it's been other children. Tonight, it's a veteran who needs a purpose.

Greg's eyes light up when the kids come rushing forward, gushing excitedly about how they are happy he's there and asking if he brought any sweets. He glances at me, confused, and I smile.

"They all have their own nightmares, Greg. They are here to heal." I tilt my head. "They could use someone to look after them, kind of like Ed used to do for you."

His face contorts with emotion, and in the low light of the circus bulbs, I see his eyes glisten.

"I can do that," he rasps. "Something so innocent shouldn't have demons."

"But they do," I murmur. "We all do." I rest my hand on his shoulder. "But together, we can overcome them."

Greg nods. "I'll protect them with my life."

"I know you will," I answer with a smile. I see hope in his eyes, a newfound purpose giving him something to reach for. This is what he needed. This is the home he sought. Now he's here, where he belongs.

It's not often our call ends without bloodshed, but for tonight, I'm thankful it did. I'm thankful I am here to see Greg laugh with a crowd of children begging to check his many pockets for candy.

I'm also grateful that he gave Club his gun without hesitation.