“Taxes and Chinese balloons.”
“And you say I’m a dork?”
“I have a favor to ask.”
“Sure,” I said. Automatic.
“You’re not going to like it.”
Great.
“Do you remember my speaking of Ivy Doyle?”
“Sorry, I don’t.”
“Ivy’s a reporter. She was embedded with my unit during my second deployment to Afghanistan. Now she works for a television news station in Washington, DC.”
A TV journalist. Katy was right. I didn’t like where this was heading.
“I want you to do an interview with her. About a fire she’s covering.”
“You know I don’t do interviews.”
“Why not?”
“Nothing good ever comes from talking to the press.” Same category as late-night calls. I didn’t say that, either.
“Jesus, Mom. That’s so close-minded.”
“Let’s just say I’ve been burned.”
“No pun intended.”
“Hilarious.”
I heard the whoosh of a pop-top. Gulping.
“Can you just speak with her?”
“Sweetie, I—”
“I owe Ivy.” A new tension edged Katy’s plea. “Big-time.”
My daughter rarely spoke of her time in the military. Of the combat she’d seen. The back-to-back war zone tours that had changed her forever. The nightmares that still haunted her sleep.
“I wouldn’t lay this on you if it wasn’t important.” Katy’s voice told me this was a hard ask for her. “To me.”
I waited.
Katy drew a taut breath. “Ivy saved my life.”
I remained very still, picturing my daughter’s army-cropped blond hair. Her intense green eyes. The scar on her cheek.
The scar about which she’d never spoken.
“Do you want to discuss it?”
“No. I want you to help Ivy. She really needs this.”