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“Manuel’s grandpa lives in Texas. Maria says God will keep Manuel and the rest of us safe. Do you think she’s right?”

No.
 

Donovan kept his answer to himself and continued hammering.

“We have grape Koolaid. You want some?”

“Sure, kid,” Donovan said. Anything to get the girl to go away.

She smiled and picked up the ball. “Isabel,” she said before walking away. “Not kid. I’m Isabel.”

Donovan felt like a jerk as she ran away. From the laughter of the others, he figured they’d dared her to talk to him like he was some sort of Boo Radley.

Appropriate.

A few minutes later she carefully brought him a cup of the grape Koolaid. He thanked her and sipped the sweet drink gratefully, trying to wash away the hurt balled up in his throat. The liquid reminded him of long ago summers spent with the Jenkins family. Camping trips, street football, fishing. God, he’d destroyed that.
 

He started to hammer again, missed and hit his thumb.

Biting back curses, he closed his eyes and wished the kids would go away instead of laughing at him.

“You should’ve played soccer with us,” Isabel said. “You have bad luck now.”

“Isabel, come here.” Maria’s stacattoed order sounded across the yard and the little girl sighed.

“I’m in trouble again.”

With that she ran away and Donovan was left to blessed peace and the heartache of memories.

The next day Donovan stopped at a shop José told him would have a soccer ball, pump and patch kit. He dropped the bag of supplies by the back door and got started on the fence. Thankfully, the children left him alone. He’d taken Carlita up on the challenge. He’d worked all day and then used tequila to chase his demons away at night. It worked better than the cheap beer he kept in his room. Besides, he didn’t want to drink alone.
 

“Your thumbnail’s going to fall off, probably.”

Isabel.

“Won’t be the first time,” he said before thinking. Great. He’d engaged her. Now she’d never go away.

“You’re famous. Tia Carlita said you’re on TV.”

“Not any more,” Donovan said and swore he wouldn’t say another word as he started work.

“That’s good. You’d look silly on TV now. Your shirt has purple on it. And you smell bad. I’m gonna be on TV one day.”

Donovan hammered. Isabel talked.

“Or maybe I’ll stay here and help Maria. My Momma died when the baby got stoled. I don’t got no dad.”

Do not engage.
 

“You left the bag by the front door. Maria told me to say thank you and then go back in the house.”

Good.

“You wanna play Barbies?”

Dear God.
 

He finally gave the little girl his attention and noticed her frown and the dark circles under her eyes. “Where are your buddies?” he asked.

“They’re all sick today. They got a bug. It’s gross.”

Donovan swallowed not wanting to think about sickness.

He dropped the can of nails and hammer and stood. He’d passed a pharmacy on the way over.
 

“I’ll be back,” he said then turned away.

A few minutes later he had children’s Pepto, lemon and lime Jarritos and crackers. He didn’t know whether it would make a difference, but at least he’d tried.

He knocked on Maria’s door and handed the bag to her then turned to get back to work on the fence.

After an hour he heard Isabel talking to herself as she kicked the new soccer ball around the front yard. At first he thought she was playing make believe like most kids, but then he heard her words and his heart hurt.

“I don’t want to go. Please. I don’t want to.”

When the fence was done Maria gave him new work. A chicken coop to build. Cabinets to fix. A garden to hoe. A roof to plank. A well to dig.

Donovan embraced the work. Used it as an anchor. As long as his muscles hurt, he could stay sane. Until one day Isabel met him at the gate with news.

“Your friend’s inside. Maria told him he can’t write about us or we could all die. That’s the way it works here.”

Holy crap. Something slipped inside him. Donovan could feel the anchor giving way as he ran toward Maria’s door. His heart raced, his stomach lurched.

Sure enough his old boss sat at the kitchen table talking as if he couldn’t imagine another place on earth he’d rather be. Like a vulture circling the next big ratings hit. He had to get the man out of here. Had to make him leave now.
 

“Sam, my man.” Donovan hoped he sounded calm.

“Nelson, you look like...”

Donovan knew what he looked like, and he knew Sam’s mouth. He nodded toward Isabel and Sam’s voice trailed off.

With more urgency than he’d shown in a month, Donovan thanked Maria for everything, tossed his hat on the table and ushered Sam out of the woman’s house and down the alleys, past the stores where he’d picked up the ball and medicine, back to the bar where José and Carlita would be working. Anything to get him away from the tiny orphanage that made such a big difference.
 

Carlita dropped her white towel and wiped tiny hands on her apron as she frowned her displeasure.

“Donovan, the sun is still shining.”

Donovan herded Sam to the bar and ordered a round of José’s best tequila and offered an explanation. Hopefully, Carlita understood.

“Sam this is José and Carlita Sanchez. They run this fine establishment and they know how to keep the booze flowing. José, Carlita, meet my former boss, Sam Jackson. Finest producer stateside and across Asia. Sam here thinks he’s going to finagle me into going home or telling all my Mexican secrets. Once he’s tried out Happy Hour Sanchez style, I think he’ll understand why that’s a no go.”

Carlita shot José a worried glance and Donovan tried to allay their fears. Hoped he was right.

“No worries, though. We’re not on the clock. I’m vacationing, and Sam here, seeing that he’s visiting me, is vacationing, too. No stories, no photos, no secret iPhone coverage.” The last he said as much for Sam’s benefit as theirs. “Sam understands the simple fact that some stories must go untold to protect innocents. He and I learned all about that one in Afghanistan, didn’t we Sam.” He downed the shot José placed in front of him as he tried to control the nerves zinging around under his skin, then downed another as the memories came roaring back. Memories he thought he’d buried far enough under the sweat of the last few weeks. Shit.

He gulped another shot, the tequila splashing over the sides of his glass because of his shaking hands.

“Nelson, maybe we....”

Donovan interrupted him. “No can do, Sam my man. You paid me a visit, the least I can do is be a gracious host.”

After the sixth shot Sam joined him. Reluctantly it seemed, but willing to go down this road if that’s what it took to get Donovan to talk.

“What problem are you trying to drown anyway, Nelson?”

Donovan didn’t answer the question, just slammed the shot and chased it with the sour citrus. Sam knew about all the problems except the disaster he’d made back home. Knew about them and didn’t seem to be bothered a bit.

He wasn’t talking, though. He’d drink until talking wasn’t an issue. No way could he tell Sam about Caldale.
 

When he’d found himself in Caldale, he’d promised to make the visit short, to the point. And then he was getting the hell out of there before the small town sucked him in.

Well, he’d certainly done that.

If he’d stayed around even one more day he would’ve crumbled. Given words to the images in his mind and made them that much more real.

Forgetting B’en Ai would be tough enough. He didn’t want to remember Ali and Anaj. Didn’t want to see the flames or hear the screams. Didn’t want to think about what kind of damage Sam could do here.

“Shi-it.” He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and asked José to hand over the whole damn bottle again.
 

The man beside him laughed as Donovan downed yet another shot. “Man. I don’t know what’s bugging you, but seems to me you should be living the high life right now.”

Donovan didn’t want to listen to anything his cold hearted boss had to say.

“Yeah. Well, in my book this
is
the high life.”

Sam shook his shaggy blonde head. “My thirteen year old has your poster hanging on the wall. The New York bureau’s been told to offer you anything you want to get you back in the field.”

A cold chill fell over him.

“I’m not going back. Not now. Not ever.”

Not one to interfere, Sam held out his glass for a shot of his own. “Hey, I’m just the messenger. You stay gone, I stay employed for sure. At least until the next young stud creates a ratings stir.” He swallowed his drink and exhaled loudly. “Did you hear they want you on the next cable special?”

Donovan shook his head. He didn’t give a damn. He wasn’t going back to the job that had turned out to be nothing more than ratings wars and sensationalism. His former agent knew not to call. The suits on top wanted chaos, and they sure as hell had gotten it. Live with Tex Nelson. They could offer him everything, and he’d still never go back. Not to B’en Ai, not anywhere.

He should’ve skipped Caldale with its Main Street fair and city park. Should’ve skipped right over that night and day with Kacie Jo.

Jesus. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Couldn’t forget the way she’d looked when he’d been inside her or the way she looked sleeping on her side, curled up in a little ball when he’d walked out her door.

Every time he saw the color green, he remembered her eyes. When a girl walked by with brown hair shot with golden streaks, he remembered the way hers had slipped through his fingers, pooled on his chest.

Dammit! He swallowed another shot.

“So, who is she?”

Donovan laughed bitterly with the heat that followed the drink. “What
she
would you be talking about, Sam?”

The older reporter shrugged and held out his hands. “Don’t even think about it, buddy. You want to fight, you go pick on someone your own age. I’d hate to hurt that pretty face of yours.”

Donovan considered laying into him. He was spoiling for a fight. But then he recalled the times he’d seen Sam fight in B’en Ai, thought about what the suits would do if they heard, and he changed his mind. Besides, if he punched Sam, the man would definitely know there was a woman involved in this drinking binge. For now, it was simple speculation. Plus, getting Sam drunk would maybe keep him off the story he’d stumbled onto back at the orphanage.

“Fine, you win.” Donovan topped off Sam’s drink, letting the final drops of tequila fall out of the bottle. He didn’t remember the worm, but he was pretty sure it’d been there earlier. “I’d rather get drunk anyway.”

Sam downed the final shot. “Haven’t you spent enough time doing that?”

Donovan didn’t figure he’d ever spend enough time doing that.
 

“What’s it been? Six weeks, two months? I know you’ve been here that long if not longer. You keep this up, you’ll be an alcoholic. Not much work for an alcoholic war reporter.”

They both laughed at that little lie.

“Former conflict media specialist,” Donovan corrected, trying for a nonchalance ruined by a bitter crack in his voice.

“Whatever. I know you’re damn talented, and I know you’ve got to quit beating yourself up about something you had no control over.”

Donovan refused to have this conversation. He would not speak the words out loud. If he let himself sit quietly long enough, the entire mess played itself out in his mind like some slow motion movie.

The friendship with the prince and his younger sister. Just like Grady and Kacie Jo, only this time in B’en Ai. An enchanted island getaway from the realities of the ravages of war.

Or so he’d thought.

He’d covered Anaj’s marriage without a single twinge. He’d ignored rule number one. Investigate. Find the back story. Know the characters in the news you're covering and make sure your audience knows them, too.

If he’d done a decent job reporting back then, maybe he’d have known. Maybe he could’ve stopped the outcome. A civil war that started after he left and still played out on the television screens nightly at six and ten and around the clock on cable news.

Maybe he could’ve warned Ali that Anaj’s husband supported terror groups around the globe. That he wanted B’en Ai for his own training camp playground.

Maybe he would’ve known that her husband had already killed two wives.

Maybe he could’ve helped Anaj escape to the states.

Barring all that, if he hadn’t been so damn busy covering other stories, maybe he would’ve gotten the letter in time to save her.

But life wasn’t made of maybes. Anaj was dead. And dammit if her death wasn't a ratings winner night after night after night.

No. He rubbed his hands on his worn jeans, tried not to think about the blood he could never wash away. He’d played parasite long enough.