Page 16 of Walking Wounded

Luke takes a deep breath before he can register the desire to do so. This is his subject, and suddenly, he wants this to go well. To be a good article. He wants this to be the start of his long-awaited rise.

“Will,” Sandy greets him, voice warm. “I want you to meet Hal’s good friend, Luke Keller.” She motions him forward.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Maddox.” Luke steps in closer and extends a hand. In that moment, he sees that things are going to go disastrously.

Before him sits a man who was once as large and vital as his son, now papered with careful, complicated wrinkles, his large bones wrapped in frailty, his body betraying him one weakness at a time. White threads of hair combed neatly to the side. A pressed plaid shirt. Khakis, riding high above white sock-clad ankles. He peers up at Luke through thick bifocals, his puckered lips a mess of tiny fissures, his dark gaze so veryalivein the midst of his half-dead face.

This man hates him. It hits Luke like a shove; he feels it in his sternum, and stomach, feels it worming between his ribs. This man who he’s come to interview hates him completely, and he can think of only one reason why that might be so.

The breath trembles in his lungs.

But he retracts his untaken handshake and wipes his now-damp palm down the leg of his jeans.

“Will,” Sandy says, low, displeased. “Don’t be in a mood.”

His voice is rough from smoking, but not at all the tremulous stutter Luke expected. “I don’t have moods, Sandra. Moods are for women.”

“And I suppose you’d be an expert on the subject,” she returns, unperturbed. “Would breakfast help?”

He mutters something.

“Fine. You be polite to Luke while I’m gone.”

Dear God, don’t leave me, Luke thinks.

She squeezes his arm as she passes, whispers, “I’m sorry, but you’ll do great.” And then she’s gone.

Fuck. That’s all he can think. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

But he has to say something, and it sure as fuck can’t befuck.

So he says, “I get it, you know? I wouldn’t want to do this if I were you either. Sorry. Trust me, it wasn’t my idea.”

Will sits silent, but his eyes snap back to Luke’s face, impossible to read.

“I’m supposed to interview you for the story I’m writing,” Luke continues. “That’s what my editor sent me to do. But see, the thing is, I’m getting paid whether you say anything or not,” he lies. “So if you want, I can just write something generic and we don’t have to go through all this.”

The man’s jaw clenches beneath his papery skin. “What’d she say your name was?”

“Luke, sir. Luke Keller.”

“Have I ever heard of you?”

Not the question he expects. It shocks an honest answer out of him. “No. I can guarantee you haven’t.”

Will frowns. “Which paper do you write for, son? Or are you one of those TV idiots?”

A startled snort. “Not a TV idiot, I promise. I write for this…” Well, here went some more truth. “This rag in New York.Candid. It’s got a decent readership. Mostly online. And the closest we ever get to politics is what so-and-so’s wife wore at some charity ball.”

“Hmph. Sounds about right. So what do you want to talk to me for?”

“Oh, well, let’s see…maybe about the fact that you beat up a protestor with your cane. For starters.” When the man gathers a deep breath, he adds, “I gotta say. The reach you’ve got with that thing.” He mimes swinging a club in a long slow arc. “Impressive.”

To his complete shock, a slow, rusty grin cuts across Will’s face. “Would you believe I don’t even practice?”

Luke feels a grin of his own tugging. “Yeah, actually.”

Will reaches with the infamous cane and taps the plush seat of the arm chair across from him, the one with the view of the window overlooking the garden. “Sit, Luke Keller. Stay a spell.”

Later, when Luke looks back on this moment, he will know that this was his first glimpse of the sea change. The first second of the rest of his life.

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