6. In the Garden

The summer sun crawled up the immense blue dome of the cloudless sky above as Blaze strolled into Sarah's tidy kitchen garden.

The two dozen growing beds in the center of the fenced area were bounded by what Blaze recognized as raw wood recovered from pallets and filled with rich, black soil, which made sense. Sarah had two excellent manure sources on her farm, not to mention the chickens. Too much compost was a more likely problem.

The strawberry bushes along the back fence were indeed fruiting heavily, and Blaze set the basket on the ground and reached into the leaves, picking strawberries with both hands, when his phone rang.

The screen read Vets in Crisis.

Because of course, it did.

He answered, "This is Lieutenant Commander Blaze Robinson."

"Thank Saint Jude that you answered," a man's voice said. Blaze recognized the voice of Major Miguel Gutierrez, another retired officer who frequently staffed the crisis hotline. "Jackson said she managed to contact you yesterday when we were slammed. We are swamped again. Wait times are over an hour, and I don't have to tell you why that's unacceptable. Why doesn't the brass take the damn weekend off from the war?"

Blaze crouched and continued picking strawberries while he held his phone to the side of his face. "I can help."

"Are you alone this time?"

Blaze sighed and rose to stand for a minute. "Staff Sergeant Jackson has a big mouth."

"I think it's fine and dandy. If you're off the market by the end of the year, I'll win a thousand dollars from the general pool."

"There's a pool?" Blaze's voice rose so high that it almost cracked.

"The only people who gamble more than military guys are professional card players. Corporal Scott Milhouse, one of your regulars, is on the line. I think he just needs stabilizing until he can get in with his therapist tomorrow."

With a click, Blaze was talking to Milhouse, and thus, he clicked over to professional counseling mode. "This is Lieutenant Commander Robinson. How are you this morning, Scott?"

Scott Milhouse had been watching the news and reading the postings on Reddit, White, and Blue, so he was distraught and having flashbacks to Afghanistan.

Blaze ran Milhouse through a grounding exercise while he was picking dozens of strawberries off the vines next to the fence. "You're doing fine, corporal. You're going to be fine."

"Where are you, sir? The static on the microphone sounds like wind."

"I'm not at home." Which was the truth.

"Yeah, I can tell. Other than the wind, it's so quiet. It doesn't sound like your car, and your house sounds altogether different. Sterile, maybe. And you're working on something. Your voice is strained like you're bending over."

Radio operators didn't just relay messages. Intel from background sounds could save lives. "I'm at a friend's farm in Iowa. It's rural, and it's quiet out here."

"It sounds quiet."

Blaze pinched strawberries off the bush and dropped them in the basket with a satisfying tonk. "Other than the wind rustling the corn, there's almost nothing. The nearest airport is forty miles away. The few commercial jets that fly out of there are eighteen-seaters, and the flight paths are nowhere near here. The nearest major road is ten miles away. Usually, there's a horse and cow around here and some chickens, so there's some animal noise, but that's about it. It's even twenty miles away from the nearest town that might do fireworks."

Which was Iowa City, and even that would be small compared to Chicago or New York.

"Sounds like heaven," Scott sighed.

"Speaking of fireworks, Independence Day is in a couple of days. Have you found someplace to get out of town yet?"

"Not yet. I don't suppose I can set up a pup tent on your isolated, rural farm in Iowa, could I?"

A vast expanse of yard ran around Sarah's farmhouse. "I don't expect that would be feasible, but you could probably stay in the barn with the horse and cow."

Scott asked, his voice even more wistful, "There's a horse?"

"Yeah, he's a great horse. His name is Charlie."

"I haven't curried a horse since I was eight years old, when I used to go to my grandparents' farm sometimes."

Blaze joked with him a little. "If you can milk a cow, you might be able to get on as a hired hand."

Scott chuckled. "My grandpa didn't have cows, just roping steers. Milking those might not give you the taste you'd expect."

"This farm is so idyllic. The VA should have vets to come out here as therapy."

Scott's voice relaxed, just talking about the farm. "I would pay to come out there to currycomb the horse and learn to milk a cow. You should get a VA program started."

Blaze stood and scratched the stubble growing on his cheek while he looked over the garden and the cornfield stretching to the horizon. The house was too small, and the land not used for crops wasn't enough for cabins or barracks. "I don't think it would work."

"How's that shopping mall property in Chicago working out?"

"The architects have submitted their plan to renovate it into residential wings and medical and therapy areas. The food court would stay as it is, but I think we should open up a barbecue rib joint in the big restaurant pad."

"Chicago does a huge fireworks show, though."

"The mall is located far enough outside of the city center, and the walls are thick enough that fireworks shouldn't be much of a problem."

Probably.

For some.

"Sounds like veteran heaven."

"Yeah," Blaze said, looking over the miles of corn rustling under the bright country sun. "It's probably the right choice."