Page 28 of Walking Wounded

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“Okay, Will. Let’s not play the game, okay? Let’s just talk.”

Breakfast this morning is toast, grapefruit, and sausage patties. Luke doesn’t touch his, instead flicks on his audio recorder, sets it on his tray, and gives Will a stern look across the library.

Will grumbles something beneath his breath and cuts the sausage in two with a fork.

“I’m sorry, what was that? The answer to all my questions?”

“I said I don’t feel like talking.”

“Ah. Why do I feel like that’s an everyday occurrence?”

Will sends him a mulish look.

“Look. Mr. Maddox, I don’t want to be here any more than you do. But I have to finish this job before I head home. So. Come on. Make it easier on both of us.”

Will studies him a moment. “You’re all out of sorts.” Before Luke can respond: “More than you were yesterday. What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Ha. That’s a lie if I ever heard one.”

It’s a cloudy day, the light filtering through the window silver and pale, a herald of winter. The library lies partially in shadow, as clouds race past, heavy with moisture.

Luke will blame the weather, though he knows it’s last night fraying his patience, making him restless.

“Will,” he says, sighing. “Look. I’m gonna be honest with you, because God knows you’re being – mostly – honest with me. I’m not an investigative journalist. I don’t dig out the truth and go chasing leads. I’m a writer. I like to write. I like to string words together and make them sound pretty.”

Will makes a face.

“Yeah, I get that a lot, but it’s true. And I specialize in poetry in fiction. In fiction that’s poetic, actually. So. Cut to the chase: I think there’s a story here. Something. But I don’t actually think it’s news worthy worth a damn. But I have to take something back to my editor. So how about you tell me a story. And, bonus, it doesn’t even have to be true. It just has to be something I can sell.”

He feels like a dishonest asshole, but it’s his only play at the moment.

Will’s mouth draws up in a considering expression. “Doesn’t have to be true, huh?”

“Totally made up,” Luke assures. “Shit knows I’d never tell my real life story.”

Will smiles at that. “Well…”

“Come on, old timer,” Luke says, and knows he’s pressing his luck. “Spin me a yarn.”

The expected reprimand doesn’t come. Instead Will lets out a creaky laugh. “Alright, alright. What is it they always say? Best to start at the start, isn’t it?”

“That’s generally how it works, yeah.”

Will clears his throat and leans back in his chair, gets comfy.

Luke double checks his recorder, and picks up a pen for good measure.

It starts.

~*~

June 1939

Will Maddox turned eight the summer of ’39. In the way of all eight-year-olds, the world was a narrow ribbon, and time stretched infinite. He didn’t feel the fading scars of the Depression, nor could he hear the war drums beating in Europe. He lived in the green rippling fields beyond his mother’s garden. He would always have room for a slice of cake after dinner, it would always be summer; life would always be a hot-blooded adventure. And he would always be best friends with Finn Murdoch.

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