Page 54 of Breaking Through

I found Mike at Eagle Point, a solid shadow against dawn's earliest light. He had his usual thermos and what looked like a sketchbook propped on his knee.

"Ranger." He didn't look up from whatever he was drawing.

"Sullivan." I settled on the adjacent boulder, respecting the careful distance we'd maintained over months of shared sunrises. "Ice on the upper switchbacks."

"Noted."

We watched pink light bleed into the eastern sky. Lake Michigan stretched steel-gray to the horizon, where night still held its ground. A pair of sandhill cranes called overhead, their ancient voices carrying clearly in the cold air.

Mike's pencil moved steadily across his page. I'd never asked about his art before—it would have been an invasion violating an unspoken agreement. But now...

"You come up here to draw often?"

His pencil paused. "VA therapist's idea. Said it might help with the..." He gestured vaguely at his head. "Noise."

"Does it?"

"Sometimes." He angled the sketchbook slightly. Strong lines captured the lake's late autumn mood, darker shadows suggesting depths beneath the surface. "Better than talking, anyway. Can't BS your way through a drawing."

"No. You can't."

The sun crested the horizon, setting the lake aflame. Mike added a few quick strokes to suggest the light's path across the water.

"Your photographer got me thinking about it," he said after a while. "How he sees this place. Makes it look like somewhere worth seeing in different moods."

"You've seen his work?"

"Blog posts at the VA. Nurse prints them out sometimes, puts them up in the waiting room." He closed his sketchbook. "That series about the storm damage repairs? How the community pulled together?" A ghost of a smile touched his face. "Reminded me of my unit. How we'd rebuild things. Make them stronger."

Understanding bloomed. This was why I'd come out here—not just to think but to see if my midnight inspiration could help people who needed it.

"What if—" I gripped my thermos tighter. "What if we had a program here? Art therapy, but outdoors. Using the trails, the shelter, the lake."

Mike's silence stretched long enough that I started to regret speaking. Then:

"Group stuff?"

"Optional group components. But also individual work. Different mediums—photography, drawing, whatever helps tell the story."

He nodded slowly. "Lot of guys at the VA... they can't do indoor sessions. Too confined. Too formal." His fingers drummed on his sketchbook. "But something like this..."

"Yeah."

The sun continued to rise. Mike stood, tucking his sketchbook into his jacket.

"Let me know if you get it going." He shouldered his pack. "Might know some people who'd be interested."

I watched him descend, his footsteps sure on the icy trail. He didn't look back, but he didn't need to. We'd said more in those few minutes than in months of shared silences.

The ideas continued to flow. I pulled up the notes app on my phone, fingers flying:

Individual and group options

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