Like Luis and his parents, who came from Argentina and had lived across the street for a couple months, a lot of foreign military families came to the base for training. And then one day they’d just be gone. He saw a familiar form scuffling down the cracked sidewalk that passed in front of the duplex ranch with a shared driveway. Rick? He squinted. No way.
“Mo—om,” he yelled. They had lived on the same street in California and had moved a year before Stephen’s family left. “Mom,” he shouted again without daring to look away. “It’s Rick.”
“Rick, from California?” His mother came into the room, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.
“Isn’t he the kid you had so much trouble with?”
“Not too much. We got along okay.”
“Didn’t he get suspended for fighting?”
“And that was only second grade,” he heard Mom say as he sprinted for the door and burst from the house, shouting Rick’s name as loudly as he could.
Once in a while, paths crossed again, thousands of miles away. He pulled up to a walk as Rick turned with a stunned look on his face. “When did’ja get here?”
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish