Mrs. Johnson sure did make a dang good lasagna. He had to give her that. Before long, he’d finished the whole dish and reached for the whisky after licking his fingers.

  –To myself, old fart, he said, toasting the air.

  He switched channels to CNN, the news was depressing as usual: a school shooting, another scandal involving a politician, and some war in a country he couldn’t even pronounce the name of.

  ”Breaking News: The body of a young woman was found in an alleyway…”

  Oh no. He changed channels again:

  ”… the local animal shelter is having an adopt-a-pet sale this weekend. You can find your new furry friend and give them a loving home with a donation.”

  The TV showed a fluffy tabby cat meowing at the camera, its emerald eyes pleading for a forever home. The anchorwoman droned on about a recent scandal in Washington, but he wasn’t listening. His eyes fluttered shut just as a deep, thundering noise filled the air, making the windows rattle.

  Cursing, he got up and headed to the window. Across the street, a black man in a green beanie was parking a Harley-Davidson, the engine roaring a few more times before he killed it.

  He gritted his crooked teeth. The braces were long gone. The retainer hadn’t lasted a month.

  –Drake. This better not turn into a fucking debrief.

  Soon, heavy boots were stomping down the hall, and there was a hard knock on the door. Leonard Drake—six-foot-seven, an ex-sergeant turned drug hustler, now a reverend at St. Anthony’s Church—pulled off his beanie to reveal a smooth, clean-shaven head. It made him look more like a criminal than a man of the cloth.

  –You look like someone just kicked your ass awake, Miller!

  –Well, good morning to you too, Sarge.

  –It’s 2 p.m., soldier Blue.

  Drake walked through the room, zig-zagging between empty beer cans and discarded pizza boxes, and sat down on the couch. It creaked under his weight, but it held.

  –This is a dump, man. You a pig or a Marine? Corporal Miller’s bachelor pad, ladies and gentlemen. The smell alone is a biohazard. Yep, definitely a category 4.

  –Fucking hilarious.

  –Yeah, I volunteered to do stand-up at the Baptist Sunday service. Thought I’d bring some comedy to the house of the Lord. He leaned in and sniffed the air. –Lasagna remains spotted. Who’s the cook?

  –Mrs. Johnson.

  –I figured as much. Cooking ain’t exactly your strong suit. Now, I got some intel you gotta see. Look.

  He held out his phone, displaying a text:

  ”CAN’T GO ON LIKE THIS. MILLER OUT.”

  –Explain, Devil Dog.

  –Uh…I, uh…I don’t remember sending that.

  –Looks like you had quite a night last night, Mr. Lonely Pants. You smell like a distillery and look like hell warmed over. And talking about pants, man. I don’t wanna see your wiener hanging out anymore.

  Drake slammed his hand on the table, making Mrs. Johnson’s Pyrex bounce.

  –Listen up, tough guy. Now, I’m gonna level with you. I got a plan for your sorry ass. I’m doing it for old times' sake, for the friendship we once had. But this is it, understand? The last time. You screw this up, you’re on your own. And I mean it, you feel me?

  –Yeah yeah yeah, loud and clear.

  –We gotta get you back on track again, we’re gonna turn your ass back into the hottest catch this town has ever seen!

  Mark looked at Drake as he had just sprouted antlers.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  –Bumped your head, preacher man?

  –Listen up, homie. It’s the only play. You gotta make her see what she’s missing, show her you can be classy and smooth again, someone she can flex on. And when Sarah’s beggin’ for your attention, we’ll figure out our next move.

  –You know this is crazy, right?

  –Crazier things have happened, bro.

  –So, what’s the plan?

  –There’s this new crew at the St. Anthony’s Church that helps war vets. It’s this four-day thing called the ‘Serenity Retreat.’ Trust me, it works wonders. And, after this, you’ll be a new man. And then, we’re gonna give you a makeover.

  –Me?

  –Yeah, you! I can’t just sit back and watch you drown in Tennessee Whisky! Pull it together, soldier! You’re not the only one who’s been through tough times, but we gotta learn to pick up the pieces and move on, right? Now, are you in or out? It’s your call.

  –It ain’t just the booze, dammit! I’m a junkie, and you were selling me the damn stuff!

  –God forgive me, Miller, Drake grumbled, gazing upwards. –I wish I'd never sold you that shit. Alright, here’s the deal. You go to this retreat, give it an honest shot, and if you still wanna drown yourself in JD after, fine. But I’m done. I ain’t playing, man.

  –Yeah, yeah.

  Mark jabbed a finger at a weathered picture on the wall—a cowboy in chaps and a Stetson riding a bucking bronco.

  –Dammit, Sarge, I was the All-American Cowboy poster boy in ’04. Had it all. Sixteen years old, plowed after a big win, drivin’ home from El Paso…hit a tree going eighty mph. Killed my best horse, Blue Thunder, totaled my Chevy, and woke up in intensive care with a busted leg. Docs said I’d never walk again, let alone ride. But I showed ‘em they were wrong…served three months in the slammer for driving under the influence.

  –Yeah, I know, Drake groaned, having heard it a hundred times before. He shot a glance at the picture of Miller in his prime. –Alright, now about the Serenity retreat…

  –I had it all, gals, a truck, dough—

  –Man, can you just fast-forward to the end? Serenity Retreat, or not? Please! Wake up, man. You’re stuck in the past!

  Mark chewed on his lip until he tasted blood.

  –Kumbaya bullshit where a bunch of folks sit in a circle, hold hands, and talk about their feelings? Singing songs, crying over their mama’s cornbread, praying for miracles that ain’t ever gonna come?

  Drake sighed, crossing his arms.

  –Miller, you’re a goddamn wreck. This isn’t about singing campfire songs. It’s about getting your head on straight.

  –My noggin’s just mighty fine, thanks.

  –Really? You’re limping around with one foot in the grave, haunted by ghosts, and chasing a bottle like it’s the answer to all your problems. That sound fine to you?

  –Think I don’t know I’m a damn wreck? Shit, Drake, I see it plain as day every time I look in that goddamn mirror.

  –Then quit running your mouth and do something about it. You keep saying you had it all—so what? What’re you gonna do with what’s left? Keep going like this, and you’re gonna end up like the bum you step over every damn day. That's what you want?

  Drake leaned in. –Think about Samantha, Miller. You want her growing up, stumbling over your sorry ass on the sidewalk? “Who’s that?” “Oh, just my dad.” That the legacy you’re leaving her?

  –Hey, every damn morning I wake up wondering if she ain’t better off without me!

  Sgt. Drake barked a laugh.

  –Better off? That’s what you’re telling yourself? You’re not some tragic martyr, Miller. You’re a coward. You wanna keep drowning in self-pity, fine, but don’t drag Samantha down with you. She’s got a future. Don’t screw it up for her.

  –You…you don’t get it.

  –No, you don’t get it, Drake shot back, voice rising. –You’re not the only one who’s seen hell, Miller. The rest of us didn’t curl up and die over it.

  –That’s easy for you to say!

  –Easy? You think it’s easy watching a man piss away what little he has left? You’re not a kid anymore, bro. So sack up, quit blaming the world, and do the damn work. Or don’t. Just know you’ll be the one who has to explain to Samantha why her dad gave up.

  –Fuck!

  Mark whipped around, face red with fury. Then his shoulders sagged.

  –Alright. Alright. I’ll give this Serenity thing a try. It’s a waste of time, but I’ll do it for Sam’s sake. And yours. But if there’s any of that prayin’ shit, I’m out. Got it?

  –Attaboy! Now come on, bring it in, for Christ’s sake!

  –The hell you think I am? A fruit?

  –Fruit? Hell no. You’re a damn nutcase, Miller. Shut up and get over here!

  Drake grabbed Mark in a bear hug, squeezing him hard enough to make him cough.

  –Dammit, you’re crushing me!

  –Sorry bro, Drake said, a grin all over his face. –Imagine telling Samantha about all those crazy rodeo days with Blue Thunder, the badass horse. You can talk about how you messed up but then turned things around, make this into a real comeback story!

  –You think so?

  –I know so.

  –You’re a pain in my ass, y’know that? But if this turns out to be some damn cult BS…

  –Cult? This is St. Anthony’s, man, my god-fearing cowboy.

  –Okay. Serenity Retreat, here I come! Mark cracked his knuckles. –I need a day or two to tie up some loose ends. Got some debts to settle, some scores to square, okay?

  –Deal. I’ll pick you up in two days. Drake pulled the beanie over his ears. –You feelin' me? He ruffled Mark’s hair like he was a kid. –Still the same old rattlesnake on Adderall, just a bit rusty. We’ll get you sorted.

  –Oh, for the love of…I get it! Am I fifteen again, or what?

  –Hey, you’re still my responsibility. I won’t let you down, Marine.

  Mark scratched his stubble.

  –I know man, I know. Uh, some slick dude showed up this morning. Said he was from the VA. Called himself Jenkins, but didn’t have any ID.

  –No ID?

  –Nah. He started talking about PTSD and all that crap, then mentioned something about a service dog.

  –A dog?

  –Yeah, like therapy or whatever.

  Years in the Corps had taught Drake that shit could hit the fan at any time.

  –No ID, no business being here. I’ll check out this Jenkins guy. The last thing you need is trouble when you’re tryna clean up, right?

  He opened the door, stepping out.

  –Don’t die, pack those yoga pants, and for God’s sake, clip your toenails. Semper Fi, brother.