“I know.”

“Have you even gone and looked at the schools around here?”

A moment’s hesitation. “No.”

Lauren stomped away and loudly clanged pots and pans around in the kitchen. I gave my dad a sympathetic look and crossed the room to sit beside him. He smiled down at me, put his hand against the side of my head, and pulled me close to his chest. I hugged him back.

“That is so irresponsible of you, Joseph Hicks. I thought you were a better man than that.”

Dad looked miserable. Lauren stomped into the room and pointed at him with an accusing finger.

“You can’t just treat him like a damn pet, Joe. He needs a proper education. I can’t believe you-”

“Hey!” I shouted.

Lauren stopped, eyes wide. I stood up and faced her, fists balled at my hips. “That’s my dad you’re talking to.”

There was a long pause. I felt Dad’s hand on my shoulder. “Caleb, calm down son.”

I glared at Lauren a moment longer, then sat down. “Listen,” Dad said. “The schools around here are no good. You know that.”

“How do you know if you haven’t even looked at them?”

“I have ears, Lauren. I hear people talk.”

She let out a sigh and sat next to me on the couch. “So what do you want to do?”

Dad’s hand went down to my shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “I was thinking we could home school him.”

Lauren looked skeptical. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“I think it’s better than sending him to one of the lowest ranked school districts in Texas,” he said flatly.

“Well … I guess we can look into it.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Lauren stood up and started toward the kitchen. “I heard the phone ring earlier while I was outside,” she said over her shoulder. “Who was it?”

“An old Army buddy of mine.”

“What did you two talk about?”

“Me finding a better job. He told me he knows a guy who works at some private combat training outfit not far from here. Black Wolf Tactical, or something like that. Said they’re hiring.”

“What kind of work would it be?”

“According to their website, they teach marksmanship and survival skills to civilians. They also work with law enforcement and a few federal agencies. Weekend warrior kind of stuff.”

“Sounds right up your alley.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Dad’s eyes strayed to a section of wall on the other side of the room. There were several pictures of him with other soldiers, a framed patch emblazoned with the emblem of the 10th Special Forces Regiment, and at the bottom was a picture of him and three other men wearing green face paint and holding M-4s. They were standing on the bank of a river, a hazy gray sky and jungle greenery behind them. It would not be until I was twelve years old before my father finally told me what was so special about that picture, why he kept it apart from all the others. They were friends of his, two of whom later died in combat, from a unit that did not officially exist.

Delta Force.

“Well that’s good news,” Lauren said. “Are you going to call them?”

“My friend will. He’s going to try to get me an interview.”

“When do you think you’ll hear back from him?”

“Probably in the next day or two.”

“Would it be more money than you’re making now, do you think?”

Dad chuckled. “Yeah. Yeah it would be.”

*****

Four days later, Dad left for the interview in a suit he bought at the Salvation Army with a big black duffel bag in his hand. When he came home three hours later, the suit was on a hanger, the duffel bag was half empty, and he was in combat fatigues. His hair was damp with sweat, his face crusted with dust and dirt, and he was smiling.

“Good lord, Joe,” Lauren said at the sight of him. “What did they do to you?”

He dropped the duffel bag. “Ah, nothing much. Just put me through my paces. Ed warned me they were going to do that.”

“You look like you just dug a ditch.”

The old man laughed. “Lauren, BWT is a combat training facility. They don’t just hire bums off the street. You have to prove you have the goods. Run the courses, shoot holes in cardboard bad guys, that sort of thing.”

“Was it dangerous?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

She dampened a towel in the kitchen sink and handed it to him. Dad started wiping the dirt off his face. “Do you think you got the job?”

The smile widened. “I start on Monday.”

“That’s great! How much did they offer you?”

He told her. Her jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?”

“Nope.”

Despite the sweat and dirt, Lauren jumped into his arms.

*****

The first change was dad got a new truck. The dealership gave him five-hundred bucks for his rusty, beat up old Sierra and sold him a shiny new Dodge Ram. The next change was we moved out of that shitty trailer park and into a proper house. In late August, in an outdoor ceremony on a hill surrounded by elms and maples, Dad and Lauren got married in the sunshine. He let me be the best man.

That fall, I began my education. And what an education it was.

SIX

One of the perks of working for Black Wolf Tactical (BWT) was Dad got the run of the training facilities at no charge. I would not say he abused the privilege, but he sure as hell used it. Especially as pertained to my training.

On a typical day, I was up at 0500, then a workout (or PT as Dad called it), then breakfast, then school. School was me and Lauren at the kitchen table from 0830 to 1400. Afterward, I had a few hours to run around the neighborhood and play until 1700, at which time Lauren drove me to Dad’s work.

By then, the students were done for the day, having driven back to their hotels, or for those with the big bucks, staying in one of the luxurious onsite rooms provided by BWT. Lauren would drop me off, and I would wait on the bench in front of the main office for Dad to finish shooting the breeze with his clients, and when he got free, he would look my way and motion me over.

He started with the basics. Unarmed combat, land navigation, how to read a map, how to use a compass, rapelling, traversing rope ladders and bridges, the obstacle course, first aid, CPR, and basic marksmanship. My favorite was rapelling. Dad used to joke he was going to bring me to work someday so I could shame the clients who were afraid to go over the edge.

“Bunch of grown men acting like scared kittens,” he used to say, leaning on the rail at the summit of the rapelling tower. “Serve ‘em right to get showed up by a little boy.”

At first, it was just me and the old man. But over time, Dad made friends with his co-workers and trusted a few of them enough to help with my training. There were three of them: Mike, Tyrel, and Blake.

Mike Holden was an ex-Marine. Except you never called him an ex-Marine to his face because, according to him, there was no such thing as an ex-Marine. He was a big man, standing six-foot-two and tipping the scales at around two-fifty. Long arms and legs, the rangy type, bald on top, the sides and back of his head shaved down to a nub. He had a laugh you could hear from the next county over. I liked him immediately.

Tyrel Jennings was the only man I ever met who spoke less than my father. Ex-Navy SEAL, big bushy beard, long hair held back by an ever-present olive drab bandanna, and dark black eyes like little coals. He gave instructions in short, terse sentences and was fond of fist bumps and high fives. But only with me.

And then there was Blake Smith. About my dad’s size, strongly built, Green Beret, never saw him without a smile on his face. Since Dad was a Green Beret himself, he and Blake hit it off quickly.

Something I always admired about Blake, beyond his general friendliness, was his dignity and sense of grace. He was the only black instructor at BWT, and he occasionally had to put up with offensive comments from ignorant clients and insensitive coworkers. But he never let it bother him. Said it was their problem, not his.