Jason's Story

 

Jason’s Story

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

by

Peter K. Young

 

 

 

 

 

Jason’s Story

Copyright © September 2025 by Peter K. Young

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Street Smart Resources

Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

September 2025 | 1^st Edition

 

Chapter 1

 

W76th, Chicago, IL,

Benny was cussing Al Davis again. He did that regularly ever since the asshole had moved the Raiders. Milford suspected he did it just to piss him off. The two of them were starting to act like an old married couple. The other cops were calling them “The Bickersons.” They had been partners for ten years, which sometimes felt like fifty--not that one wouldn’t take a bullet for the other.

Milford adjusted his sunglasses against the late afternoon glare. Ten years of working Chicago's streets had taught him to scan constantly—doorways, alleys, the spaces between buildings where trouble liked to hide.

Benny was doing the same on his side, methodically sweeping while he bitched and moaned about Al’s greed and general assholishness. Their patrol car crawled through the strip mall parking lot at walking speed.

They'd seen it all: drug deals, domestics, gang shootings. Chicago was in the middle of a crack cocaine epidemic. The job had a way of filing down your edges until all that was left was razor-sharp cynicism. You built a thick skin or you burned out. Simple as that.

“Movement behind the Burger King,” Benny said, pointing toward the dumpster area.

Milford pulled over and squinted. At first, it looked like just another transient going through the trash—nothing unusual in this part of town. But as they drew closer, he cursed:

“Oh, fuck me.”

The figure rummaging through a split garbage bag was a little boy. Barefoot, maybe six years old, skinny, all knobby knees and sharp shoulder blades visible through a dirt-stained blue t-shirt. Barefooted in December. Tangled blond hair caught the sunlight as the boy's small hands worked through a burst trash bag an employee was too lazy to clean up.

You never get used to the kids.

As they were getting out of their shop, the boy's face lit up. He held a white Burger King bag, crumpled but not empty. The kid stood up, cradling it like treasure, and pulled out what looked like a half-eaten Whopper.

“Ah, hell,” Benny muttered.

The boy tore into the burger with desperate hunger, sauce and lettuce falling from his small fingers.

“Easy does it,” Milford said as they approached him, using the gentle cadence he used with spooked witnesses. “Hey there, buddy. We're not going to hurt you.”

When the little boy spotted them, his brown eyes went wide. He started eating faster, shoving chunks of the burger into his mouth.

“It's okay,” Benny called out, raising his hands to show they were empty. “We just want to talk.”

The boy clutched the bag to his chest and bolted.

Milford cursed under his breath as they gave chase. The little guy was quick. He dodged between cars, his bare feet slapping against the pavement, the burger bag still pressed against his ribs.

They cornered him against the chain-link fence behind the dry cleaner. The boy's chest heaved as he backed against the metal links, trapped but still defiant. He kept shoving the burger into his mouth—bite after frantic bite—while brandishing a white plastic fork at them.

“Mine!” the child managed around a mouthful of food, waving the fork at them.

“Nobody's going to take your food,” Milford said, crouching down to make himself less threatening. “You can keep eating. It's okay.”

The boy kept stuffing the burger into his overfilled mouth.

Suddenly, the boy doubled over, vomiting up the partially chewed mess onto the broken asphalt. Bits of lettuce, meat, and bun splattered at his feet.

For a moment, the boy just stared at the pile of vomit. Then he wailed—not crying, not sobbing, but an animal sound of pure loss

Milford knelt beside the boy as he sank to his knees, his small body shaking with sobs.

“It's alright,” Milford whispered, but it wasn't. Nothing about this was alright. “We're going to help you. I promise. What's your name, buddy?”

“Jason,” came the whispered reply, barely audible.

“Where’s your mommy?”

“Don’t know. She left.”

Benny had jogged back to the patrol car and popped the trunk. He returned with the red emergency blanket they kept in the trunk and the shop’s brown teddy bear that they had for accident victims.

They wrapped him in the blanket, and Benny placed the teddy bear in the boy's thin arms. The little boy clutched it immediately, holding it against his neck.

The drive to Chicago Children's Hospital was mercifully short. The boy sat in the back seat, wrapped in the blanket like a small package, the teddy bear pressed against his cheek. Occasional sobs shook him.

“I fucking hate junkies,” Benny muttered.

Milford nodded. His jaw clenched tight as he drove.

They made quite a sight walking through the emergency room doors—two enormous black officers, each standing well over six feet and built like linebackers, escorting a dirty, barefoot, blanket-wrapped little white boy between them.

His blond head peeked out from the red blanket, fearful brown eyes darting around the bright, sterile environment.

The nurses at the reception desk looked up with barely concealed amusement. It wasn't unusual to see cops bringing in patients, but the protectiveness with which these two giants escorted their small charge was endearing enough to draw smiles.

“Well, well,” one nurse began with a grin, “looks like you boys been—”

Her teasing stopped mid-sentence when she caught sight of both officers' expressions. Milford's jaw was set tight, eyes cold with suppressed rage. Benny's usually cheerful face was a blank mask, the muscle in his cheek twitching.

Then the smell hit them.

The nurses' demeanor shifted instantly to professional concern as they caught the unmistakable odors clinging to the small boy—vomit, certainly, but underneath that, the sour stench of unwashed skin and soiled clothing—feces—the particular smell of a child who had been living without basic care for far too long.

“Room three,” the head nurse said sharply, all business now. “Dr. Martinez will be right there.”

“No!” he cried, his small arms wrapping around Benny's massive forearm with desperate strength. “Don't leave me! Please don't leave me!”

Benny's composure finally cracked. He knelt down, eyes tear-filled at the child clinging to him with desperate trust.

“We have to let the doctors help you, little man,” he soothed, his voice rough. “They're going to take good care of you.”

But he wasn't having it. As the nurse gently tried to separate him from his protectors, the wailing started again—a gut-wrenching sound of loss. It followed them down the hallway as they walked out, growing fainter.

They sat in the patrol car for a long time afterward, neither speaking. Finally, Benny broke the silence.

“Think we'll hear what happens to him?”

“I’ll ask, but probably not.”

They never did.

They never forgot him either

 

Chapter 2

 

At fourteen, Jason Stone had been living on the streets for over a year, long enough to learn to be tough and aggressive when necessary. He'd learned to fight all out, to strike first and to never show weakness. The street had taught him well; hesitation meant defeat.

Winter was coming. The sun was setting earlier. The October air had a bite that cut right through Jason Stone's coat. He was fourteen years old, and he was scared. He had no idea how he was going to get through a Chicago winter.

He had been walking along the alley behind the bakery (thinking on the whole loaf of bread in his backpack) when he spotted it, an unlatched basement window. The building had been a warehouse or manufacturing space; now it held a gym. He knew that customers came and went until about nine at night; then the place went dark.

His hands were already numb from the cold. The forecast called for the first frost of the season. He couldn't spend another night huddled behind the dumpsters.

He had to try.

He gave the small hopper window a push. It wasn’t latched. After checking to make sure no one was watching, he wiggled through the small opening. The difference was immediate—blessed warmth enveloped him like an embrace he hadn't felt in months. The basement was dark and smelled musty but it was blissfully warm.

He made his way carefully through the darkness, hands outstretched until he found a set of stairs leading up. His his eyes gradually adjusted to reveal a workshop. Tools hung neatly on pegboards, and under a staircase that presumably led to the first floor, he discovered canvas drop cloths—thick, paint-stained, but clean enough.

This was it. This was the stroke of luck he'd been praying for.

He pulled out the loaf of bread he had scored from the dumpster behind the bakery. He ate slowly, savoring every bite, washing it down with sips from his water bottle. The concrete floor was hard, but the drop cloths provided decent insulation. He wrapped himself up like a cocoon, feeling safer than he had in weeks. The gentle hum of big heating unit created a lullaby that pulled him toward sleep.

He slept deeply.

Too deeply.

A kick to his feet sent shock waves through his body, jerking him from dreams of warm beds and full meals back to cold reality. He scrambled backward, still tangled in the canvas, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights that now flooded the basement.

“What the hell are you doing down here?”

The voice was deep, rough, and carried an edge that made his blood freeze. He looked up to see a mountain of a man towering over him—easily six-foot-four, with broad shoulders that seemed to fill the entire basement. His face was weathered like old leather, with deep lines carved by years of scowling. Dark eyes stared down at him from under bushy gray eyebrows, and the man's massive hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

The boy tried to speak, but only a croak came out.

“I said, what are you doing down here?” The man took a step closer; Jason slid out from under the staircase and rose to his feet. Started calculating escape angles.

The staircase led to freedom.

“Sorry, I was just... I was cold, and I didn't think anyone would mind. I'll just get going.”

“You didn't think anyone would mind if you broke into their property?” The man's voice rose, echoing off the concrete walls. “How long you been coming in here, boy?”

“Just... just last night. First time, I swear.”

“How old are you, kid?”

The question caught him off guard. “Fourteen.” He moved slowly to one side. He'd been sleeping underneath the stairs. If he could just get a few more steps, he would have enough room.

The man's expression changed. He rubbed his jaw with one massive hand, the sound of stubble scratching against his palm surprisingly loud in the sudden silence.

“Fourteen,” he repeated to himself. “Shit.”

Jason took his chance and threw a punch then darted to the right, desperately trying for the stairs. The man was old but he moved automatically just enough to avoid the punch.

The man sidestepped the next punch just as casually, not even changing expression.

“You done?” he asked quietly.

Jason came at him again, faster this time, more desperate. The man simply wasn't there when the punch arrived. No fancy moves, no dramatic counters—just gone, like smoke.

“Hey kid, how about you join me for breakfast?”

Shocked Jason stared at the man. That was the very last thing he expected. He stared at the man suspiciously. Nothing was free in his world. But something in this man's eyes was different – different the social workers with their clipboards and false smiles, the cops who moved him along, the street predators who circled vulnerable kids like sharks.

“Why?” Jason's fourteen-year-old voice cracked despite his efforts to sound tough.

“Because I was you once. And someone gave me a chance.”

***

The diner was a working man's café called Mac’s Place. The booths were green cracked vinyl, and the coffee could strip paint, but it was warm, and the busy waitresses didn't look twice at Jason's filthy clothes. The man ordered for both of them—steak and eggs, toast, orange juice.

Real food. Jason’s mouth watered at the thought of it.

They ate in silence for the first ten minutes. The man didn't ask questions, didn't lecture, didn't try to fix anything. He just ate his eggs and watched Jason wolf down the first hot meal he'd had in days.

“My name is Charley Finnegan. You got family?”

Jason's jaw tightened. “No. Had one for a while.”

“Foster homes?”

“Three. Last one bad. Ran away.”

Charley nodded. He understood running. At fifteen, he'd escaped his foster home and lived under bridges for two years before Jimmy Santos, a Vietnam vet with one leg and infinite patience, had found him trying to steal from the donation box of St. Ann’s church soup kitchen.

“I got a room,” Charley said. “Apartment on the second floor of the gym. It's not much, but it's warm and dry. You could stay there if you want.”

Jason's fork of hash browns stopped halfway to his mouth. “What's the catch?”

“No catch. But there are rules.”

“Like what?”

“You work. No drugs. No stealing. You go to school.” Mr. Finnegan paused. “Maybe I teach you how to fight better.”

The apartment was sparse—a bed, a dresser, a small table, and tiny kitchen with a stove and a little refrigerator. But it had its own bathroom and a lock on the door. Mr. Finnegan, as Jason would forever after call him, handed him the key and stepped back.

“I'm next door if you need anything. The fridge has bottled water.”

That first night, Jason barely slept. He kept waiting for the catch, for Mr. Finnegan to demand something in return. But morning came, and there was just a knock on the door to wake him up and an invitation to breakfast.

For once maybe to make up for all the shitty things that life had handed him, fate had finally gotten around to handing young Jason a gift.

***

Getting the kid enrolled in school took three weeks of paperwork and all of Charlie Finnegan's connections. He had to find the Court Order Delayed Registration of Birth from the system and get a record of his last schooling—seventh grade at Lincoln School. The guidance counselor, Mrs. Carnes, was skeptical but willing to work with them. Jason would need to catch up—they placed him as a freshman.

“I ain't going,” Jason said flatly when Finnegan brought home the enrollment papers.

“You are.”

“You can't make me.”

Finnegan looked at him calmly. “No, I can't. But if you don't go to school, you can't stay here.”

It was the first test of their arrangement. Jason spent the night pacing the small apartment, furious and conflicted. He could leave. Go back to the streets. But the bed was soft, and for the first time in months, he wasn’t hungry all the time.

He went to school.

Another issue arose three weeks later. Jason had come home with a split lip and torn shirt—some kids at school had decided the new kid was an easy target.

“Show me what you did,” Mr. Finnegan said.

Jason demonstrated his street fighting technique—wild swings, desperate grappling, more fury than technique.

Finnegan shook his head. “You fight like you're spastic. All panic, no purpose. Like you’re desperate”

“I was desperate. Getting beat up hurts.”

“Well, as entertaining as it is to watch, it won't always work. It'll get you hurt bad or hurt someone else eventually.” Finnegan moved into a relaxed stance. “Fighting isn't about releasing anger. It's about control.”

After that, Finnegan began to teach his philosophy of conflict to the boy.

In the following months and years, Mr. Finnegan showed Jason how to stand, how to move, how to see an attack coming and be somewhere else when it arrived. It wasn't like the movies—no flashy kicks or dramatic throws. Just simple, efficient movement that made attackers miss and created opportunities. He taught him to concentrate on the joints not the head or face where most people punched..

“Why are you showing me this stuff?” Jason asked as they finished.

Mr. Finnegan was quiet for a long moment. “Because survival isn't about being the toughest guy in the room. It's about being smart enough to avoid the fight and skilled enough to end it quickly with the least amount of damage to your opponent if you can't. You can end up in prison if you hurt someone bad.”

Charlie Finnegan was a retired Special Forces Warrant Officer. He was a practical man of the world. For over twenty years, he had served with elite soldiers in some of the most dangerous places around the globe. He had taught green foreign troops on three continents. The fact that he was teaching this boy the same way he’d teach a green troop didn’t seem odd to him. That’s what he knew to do. The lessons were practical stuff. He treated the boy like he would any other recruit, thoroughly, to the best of his ability. Tough love mixed with care and kindness.

The boy, Jason, soaked it up eagerly.

Of course, progress came in increments. Jason's school grades slowly improved from Fs to Ds to occasional Bs, then As. He learned to keep his living space spotless and organized. When he was invited to a girl's house for dinner, Mr. Finnegan arranged for him to visit a woman friend of his named Iris to learn manners and the proper way to treat a lady.

After all, the measure of a man is that he is unfailingly courteous.

The constant hyper-vigilance that had kept him alive on the streets never went away, but it retreated into the background.

Not everything was smooth. Jason still had nightmares that woke him from a sound sleep. He still struggled with authority. His instinct to fight or flee could still be triggered at odd times by unexpected interactions. Twice he disappeared for days, returning dirty and hungry and expecting to be turned away.

Both times, Mr. Finnegan simply threw him a towel, told him to go shower, afterward asked if he was hungry.

Another crisis came four months in. The call came that Jason had been fighting. Three kids had cornered a younger student, and Jason had intervened. By the time the school security arrived, all three bullies were on the ground, and Jason was standing over them, breathing hard.

Mr. Finnegan arrived at the school with a lawyer—a friend who owed him a favor. They sat in the principal’s office as the situation was sorted out.

“I didn't start it,” Jason said quietly.

“Okay.”

“They were hurting a kid. A little kid.”

“Okay, how badly were they hurt?”

“Just some bruises and a bloody nose.”

“Okay then. The measure of a man is what he chooses to fight for. In the future stay away from the head and face. I told you that a hundred times.”e

“Yes sir.”

The furor died down when the security footage showed him defending the younger student.

Mr. Finnegan had hundreds of “the measure of a man” sayings. He used them to illustrate and hammer home life lessons, large and small—from discipline, to neatness and organization, to being honorable, to being on time (fifteen minutes early), to being a man of your word, to adapting and overcoming.

By junior year, Jason had blossomed into a different person. His grades had improved to mostly Bs and As. He had a part-time job at a pizza place. He had a bank account and a debit card. He’d fallen in love and been dumped. He knew things about himself that his peers didn’t. For example, he knew how much his mind lied when it said he was exhausted. How long he could go without sleep and still function effectively. He knew enough Krav Maga and Brazilian jiu-jitsu to be a very dangerous young man. He could fire all sorts of weapons at an expert level. He could read a map and find his way through a forest, even at night with pinpoint accuracy. (It was one of his favorite games. Mr. Finnegan regularly tested him by texting him in the middle of the night to come find him in the woods outside of town.). They had long discussions about his understanding of the books he was assigned, from The Art of War to the Ranger Handbook, to the works of the Stoics, of which Mr. Finnegan was a fervent admirer.

Most importantly, he had a code of behavior. Sophisticated rules of engagement, Mr. Finnegan called them, that kept pride and anger firmly in check. He had the beginnings of a way of living.

On the day Jason was to graduate from high school, he got himself up, carefully the battered Rolex that to his wrist. Mr. Finnegan had taken it off his own wrist and presented it to him as an early graduation present. He gathered his graduation gown, and drove himself to the ceremony. On the way, he stopped off for a few minutes at the veterans' section of Mountain View Cemetery and tearfully thanked Mr. Finnegan for his life. Cancer had come for his mentor a month earlier. The stone was simple, plainspoken as the man had been: “Charles Meehan Finnegan, Chief Warrant Officer Five, Seventh Special Forces Group. RIP.”

The day after graduation, he enlisted. He knew exactly what he was going to be.

 

Chapter 3

The decision came to Staff Sgt. Jason Stone during a mission in Afghanistan, sitting in an OP overlooking a nameless hamlet in Kunar Valley at 0300 hours. His team had been watching Taliban fighters move weapons through a village below. There was a full moon, which made noting positions and counting personnel easy. He was preparing to call in coordinates—routine work that they all could do in their sleep by now.

But something felt different. Not the mission fatigue that came and went with deployments, not the accumulated stress of twelve years of military service. This was deeper—a quiet recognition that he wanted this chapter of his life to be over.

Staff Sgt. Eddie Martinez was watching beside him. “You're awful quiet tonight, Stony. Even for you.”

“Just thinking. This is my last time doing this.”

“Yeah? You thinking about getting out?”

“Yup. Thinking about getting out.”

Martinez was quiet for a moment. They'd served together a long time and had been through a lot of shit. “You sure about that? You're pretty good at this shit. Maybe even really good.”

Jason nodded slowly. “That's part of the problem. I'm thirty years old, and I've spent my entire adult life doing this job. It's time to see what else I can do.”

The conversation stayed with him through the rest of the deployment. Jason had always known military service wouldn't be forever, but he'd never seriously considered what came after. The Army had given him structure, purpose, and brotherhood. It had taken a raggedy-ass street kid and turned him into a professional--someone who could be counted on when things went sideways.

The life had also resulted in a divorce. Work in the teams was not conducive to a happily-ever-after married life. Sarah had tried. He didn’t blame her. He would have left his ass too if he had been her.

But twelve years of deployments in a hot war had also given him memories and shown him things about himself that he wasn't entirely comfortable with. He was very good at violence—frighteningly good. His personal code kept him grounded and human, but he could feel the weight of all those calculated decisions accumulating. Seventeen confirmed kills in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Syria. And it wasn’t just the numbers but the faces he remembered, families he'd met. War was not kind to civilians caught in the middle.

Back at Bragg, Jason began the process of transitioning out. His commanding officer, Colonel Bradley, called him in for a counseling session.

“Sgt. Stone, I'm not going to lie. Losing you is a blow. Your performance evaluations are outstanding, your teammates respect you, and you've got the kind of operational experience we can't easily replace.”

“I understand, sir. It's not an easy decision.”

“What's driving it? Career progression? You could be looking at Sergeant Major down the line, even a commission if you wanted to go that route.”

Jason had thought about this conversation for months. “Sir, I've been doing this work since I was eighteen. I've been good at it, and I've been proud to do it. But I think I need to find out who I am when I'm not a soldier.”

Bradley leaned back in his chair. “That's honest. The transition is going to be a struggle. Do you have any idea what you want to do?”

“Not specifically, sir. But I've got skills beyond just military operations. The language training, the cultural knowledge, the ability to read people and situations. I figure there's got to be a way to use those skills without carrying a weapon. I'm thinking I might go back to school.”

The transition process was both bureaucratic and emotional: medical evaluations, career counseling, benefits briefings. But the hardest part was saying goodbye to the team. His team threw a going-away party at a local bar, and Jason found himself reflecting on how these relationships had shaped him.

“You know what I'm going to miss most?” Breaker Ames said, already three beers in. “The way you could walk into any situation and just... figure it out. Didn't matter if it was a firefight or a negotiation with village elders. You always knew what to do.”

“I learned from good people,” Jason replied. “All of you.”

Doc raised his beer. “To Stoney. The only guy I know who could kill you seventeen different ways but would rather talk than fight.”

The toast was both affectionate and accurate. Jason had become someone who could apply violence with surgical precision but understood that the real skill was knowing when not to use it.

On his last day, Jason cleaned out his locker, packed his gear, and walked across the base he'd called home for most of his adult life. He thought about the eighteen-year-old who had walked into the recruiting station with his high school diploma and birth certificate. That kid had been looking for structure and purpose. The Army had given him all of that and more.

His savings account had grown substantially over twelve years of deployments. Combat pay and the simple fact that there wasn't much to spend money on in a remote village had provided him with a solid financial cushion. He could afford to take time figuring out his next move.

The question was: who was he when he was no longer a soldier?

The Ford F-150 was the first brand-new vehicle he had ever owned. It was metallic gray with a crew cab and a 5.0-liter V8. He had paid cash, which had surprised the salesman at Pennyrile Ford in Hopkinsville.

Loading his stuff into the truck took no time at all. Two duffel bags of clothes, two footlockers full of books, another with his dress uniforms and military memorabilia, and his laptop. That was it. Everything else he had either given away or sold.

The drive to Seattle would take him through states he had never really seen. Now, for the first time since he was eighteen, he had nowhere specific to be and no timeline to meet.

Somewhere outside of St. Louis, he pulled into a truck stop to fuel up and stretch his legs. The temperature was already pushing ninety degrees at 8 AM; that, along with the humidity, made it feel like the inside of a rice cooker. Another reminder of why he was heading to Washington State.

“Nice truck,” commented an older man at the next pump, nodding toward the F-150. He was wearing a John Deere cap and had the weathered hands of someone who had spent his life working outdoors.

“Thanks. Just bought it.”

“Heading somewhere or just driving?”

“Seattle,” Jason said. “Looking for cooler weather.”

The man laughed. “Well, you'll find that for sure. What's in Seattle?”

Jason considered the question. “Nothing specific. Just seemed like a good place to start over.”

The conversation was brief but friendly, the kind of interaction Jason had missed during his military years. Normal, with no rank structure—just two strangers making small talk at a gas station.

As he drove through the Midwest, Jason began to understand why people talked about the therapeutic value of road trips. There was something about the rhythm of highway driving that created space for reflection. He found himself going over the past twelve years with a kind of calm assessment that made him feel truly finished with that part of his life.

The mountains in Montana were his first real glimpse of the landscape he was heading toward. Even in late summer, some of the peaks still had snow on them, and the air coming through his windows carried a crispness that reminded him how much he'd grown tired of arid deserts.

He spent the night in a motel in St. Regis and woke up feeling more rested than he had in months. The elevation and the cool air agreed with him.

The drive through Idaho and Washington reinforced his sense that he was heading in the right direction. The landscape was dramatic but not oppressive, vast but not empty.

Crossing the Cascades, Jason felt a shift in the atmosphere that was both literal and metaphorical. On the western side, the air was cooler, and it was raining a gentle mist. Instead of feeling gloomy, it felt like relief.

The approach to Seattle was everything he had hoped for—mountains rising on both sides, forests that looked like they had been there since the beginning of time, and glimpses of water that promised a city built around natural beauty rather than in spite of it.

He took I-5 North through the city, not in any hurry to settle on a specific destination. Seattle was bigger than he had expected, with neighborhoods that seemed to have distinct personalities. The downtown core was impressive without being overwhelming, modern but not soulless.

Jason found a hotel in the middle of the Capitol Hill neighborhood, parked his truck, and took a walk. The demographics were unlike anything he had experienced—young professionals, artists, students, and longtime residents who had watched the city change around them. Coffee shops that took their craft seriously, bookstores, and restaurants serving cuisines from around the world.

That first evening, sitting in a brewery called Elysian, Jason ordered a beer and a burger and tried to process what he was feeling. He was completely on his own. No one knew his previous rank, combat record, or skill sets. No one was expecting him to show up in the morning for duty. He was just another guy in his thirties, trying to figure out what came next.

The beer was good—an IPA with a hoppy complexity that reminded him why the Pacific Northwest had a reputation for craft brewing. The burger was better than anything he'd eaten in months, and the fries were hand-cut. But more than the food and drink, Jason appreciated the atmosphere. People were relaxed. Conversations flowed at a normal volume about everyday topics—work, relationships, weekend plans.

“You look like you're thinking pretty hard about something,” observed the bartender, a girl in her twenties with intricate tattoos covering both arms.

“Just taking in the city,” Jason replied. “First time in Seattle.”

“Yeah? What brings you here?”

“Change of scenery. Spent the last twelve years in hot, dry places. Figured I'd try somewhere wet.”

She laughed. “Well, you picked the right place for that. Fair warning though—it's going to rain for about six months starting in October. Some people find that depressing.”

“I think I'm going to like it,” Jason said with a smile.

Over the next few days, Jason explored, getting a feel for the city's geography and personality, Fremont, with its quirky tech community, the statue of Lenin with its bloody hand, and the famous troll under the bridge, Ballard, with its Scandinavian heritage, fishing boats, and thriving restaurant scene, Queen Anne, more upscale but still accessible and the U District, young and energetic, with students walking and talking.

He found himself drawn to a neighborhood in the middle—Wallingford. A residential area with tree-lined streets and modest houses, close enough to the university for convenience but far enough out to feel like a true middle-class neighborhood.

There, he found an apartment complex that wasn't fancy but looked well-maintained, and the rent seemed okay (high but reasonable for Seattle). The manager, a woman named Sarah Jennings, showed him a one-bedroom unit on the fourth floor with windows that looked out over the neighborhood toward Mt. Rainier.

“Most of our tenants are young professionals and grad students,” she explained. “It's quiet, but not antisocial. We look out for each other.”

Jason signed the lease that afternoon. For the first time since he was eighteen, he had a place unrelated to military assignments or operational requirements.

Moving in was simple, but as he unpacked his few belongings into the apartment, Jason felt something he hadn't experienced in years: the satisfaction of having his own space.

That night, sitting on his small balcony with a beer from the grocery store down the street and a pepperoni pizza from a place called “My Friend Derrick's,” Jason watched the city center in the distance. The air was cool and clean, carrying the promise of rain.

On his first night, he slept on the floor, having bedded down in worse places. He slept without dreaming—another thing to be thankful for.

Tomorrow he would be shopping for groceries and hunt up some furniture.

 

Chapter 4

The University of Washington's graduate admissions office was housed in a brick building reminiscent of Ivy League schools; however, the view through the windows of the blossoming cherry trees in the Quad was distinctly Pacific Northwest

He sat across from Dr. Patricia Jennings, the History Department's graduate advisor, with his transcripts and GI Bill paperwork spread between them.

“Your undergraduate work is solid,” Dr. Jennings said, reviewing his files. “Political Science with a minor in Middle Eastern Studies from the University of Kentucky. Good grades, especially considering you completed most of this through distance learning while deployed.”

“Yes, ma'am. Took me six years, but I made it work around operational schedules.”

She looked up from the paperwork. “You say your Army background was heavily invested in conflict resolution and cultural mediation. That's not typical of our program. Can you elaborate?”

“I was Special Forces. I was trying to explain what we did, mostly. I've had extensive experience working with indigenous forces in Afghanistan and Iraq. What struck me was how often conflicts that seemed intractable from the outside made perfect sense when you understood the historical and sociological context. That’s what got me interested in history. I wanted to study how historical grievances shape contemporary political situations.”

“Interesting. Your language skills would certainly be valuable for research.” Dr. Jennings made notes on her file. “We can offer you admission for the spring semester. I’m hoping your experiences can add something unique to our program.”

That was encouraging. He’d been half afraid his military experience would scare them away.

His apartment in Wallingford was slowly becoming home. Jason had bought basic furniture—nothing fancy, but functional and comfortable. His one splurge was a massive roll-top desk he'd found at an antique store in Snohomish. The kitchen was a lot nicer than in his other apartments, and he found himself having fun learning to cook and bake.

The neighborhood itself was slowly becoming home as well. The Starbucks on “5th, where he could work on his laptop. A good place to run at Green Lake. A bookstore that stayed open late. The Thai restaurant that made food as good as anything he'd eaten in Asia. The people who worked at these places began to recognize him, offering the kind of casual friendliness that made him feel welcome.

The daily routine that had sustained him through twelve years of military service, he now adapted for civilian life. Up at 0500, coffee, then an hour and a half of exercise. He'd found a well-equipped gym in Fremont called Iron Works. The owner, an ex-Marine named Tony Pellegrini, took one look when he first walked in and said,

“How long you been out?”

“Three months.”

“Army?”

“Yup.”

Tony nodded. “You'll fit in here. We got a lot of vets working out here. Good group—they'll leave you alone if you want to be left alone, but we’re here if you need us.”

The gym became another anchor point, the place where his body could remember what it was trained to do. He had his own routine. He lifted, but wasn’t a bodybuilder. A lot of core work, swimming at the YMCA, and running. The gym had a back room with speed bags and heavy bags. He added those to his routine. The physical exertion helped control the restless energy that was creeping in day after day.

Jason was self-aware enough to recognize that he was going to need some help keeping PTSD at bay. The transition from military to civilian life was more complicated than he'd figured. Not traumatic, but disorienting. He found Dr. Sarah Longwell through a referral from another marine vet named Hammer. He paid for the sessions himself rather than go through the hassle of the VA bureaucracy. Her office was in a converted house in the Eastlake Neighborhood, comfortable and professional without feeling clinical.

Dr. Longwell was in her mid-forties, with the kind of presence that suggested she'd heard everything and wasn't easily shocked. During their first session, she asked direct questions that cut through any attempt at bullshitting.

“Tell me about the transition. What's been hardest?”

Jason considered the question. “The lack of purpose. I spent twelve years being very good at something that doesn't translate to civilian life. I was an expert at analyzing intelligence, neutralizing threats, protecting people, carrying out specific missions. Now I'm trying to figure out what all that expertise means in a world where those skills aren't needed.”

“Do you miss it? The military life?”

“Yes. I miss the clarity. I miss knowing exactly what my job was and how to do it well. I miss being part of something bigger than myself.” He paused. “I miss combat.”

Dr. Longwell made notes but didn't interrupt. “What does purpose look like now?”

“I don't know yet. That's the problem.”

Over the following weeks, their sessions became a space for Jason to process not just the transition but the accumulated weight of twelve years in combat zones.

He couldn’t bring himself to mention The Nightmare.

“You seem to have developed a very sophisticated moral framework, rules of engagement as it were, to live your life by,” Dr. Longwell observed during one session. “Tell me about that.”

He told her about Mr. Finnegan and bits and pieces of his life before Mr. Finnegan.

Winter arrived gradually. The rain that everyone had warned him about started in October and settled in for what seemed like permanent residence. But Jason loved it. He liked the way it made the city feel intimate and cozy, the way it washed the city clean. The way it encouraged people to spend time in bookstores and coffee shops.

So far, so good. Jason was enjoying his new life. The only thing missing was purpose. He kept telling himself that it was coming. But sometimes the restlessness was overwhelming.

 

 

Chapter 5

His writing started as therapy. Dr. Longwell had suggested he keep a journal to process his thoughts, but he quickly found himself gravitating toward something more structured; stories that sought to make sense of the things he'd seen and the people he'd known.

He wrote in the early morning hours, after his workout and breakfast, when his mind was clear. His roll-top desk became his writing space. With headphones playing soft instrumental jazz , he could lose himself creating for hours. There was something satisfying about writing that ordered his mind and gave him a tiny bit of purpose.

The first story emerged slowly, built around a friendship he'd developed with a Tajik trader named Hamid during his second deployment. Hamid was part of a clan of traders who moved goods (and information) through the mountains of northern Afghanistan. Officially, the team was supposed to monitor them for weapons smuggling. Unofficially, they'd developed a relationship based on mutual respect. Hamid was the man who helped him gain insight into Afghanistan’s complexities.

The story wasn't about military ops or intelligence gathering. It was about the evening conversations he'd had with Hamid's nephew, Rashid, a young man about Jason's age who spoke three languages and understood the geopolitics of Central Asia better than most. What he remembered was how Rashid had described his arranged marriage to a girl from a neighboring clan. The marriage was a joining of families that had been planned by their relatives.

The story he wrote was a meditation on love across cultural divides—not a romantic love between a young boy and his new bride, but the broader love of place, family, and tradition that motivated people on all sides of the conflict.

It grew to novella length. He tried to capture the humanity on both sides of an asymmetric conflict. He had no illusions that he was Hemingway, but he polished it as best he could and saved it to his Google Drive. It was a valuable exercise; he had a lot to learn, but he was happy that he honored the people he'd known without romanticizing or demonizing anyone.

The second story quickly followed the first—a historical novel set in 19th-century Seattle. The university library had a good collection of newspapers from that era. The journalism of the day was an unashamed blend of fact and fiction. The prose was quirky and high-flown. For example, The Snohomish Eye featured an article about a local attorney receiving “a fist to the ocular” one night in a local saloon over a land dispute. The piece didn’t provide more details; it simply stated the fact as if it were a common occurrence. He was left to wonder about the lawyer. Then he wondered about the reporter. Had he been hanging around a local tavern with a notebook? Probably, he decided; taverns and bars were where deals were made and rumors whispered.

The 19th century was the heyday of yellow journalism. Every newspaper had a favorite political point of view and joyfully battled their enemies with grandiose prose. Moderation didn’t sell newspapers.

Everybody read the newspaper. For a penny, you could get a sense of local and national news while being entertained by raucous debate. Newsboys bought a hundred copies for sixty cents, and if they sold them all, they’d make forty cents. Good money for a ten-year-old in those times.

Jason started spending hours in the University of Washington library reading accounts of daily life in 1890s Seattle. The city was cycling through booms and busts like the rest of the country. The city experienced growing pains as it transitioned from a frontier town to a major port. The logging business attracted immigrants from around the world.

The hero he chose turned out to be a tough, wise-cracking twelve-year-old boy named Finnegan Sheehy, newly arrived from Ireland with his older brother, John. Two months later, on Finn’s twelfth birthday, word came that his brother had drowned while trying to release a log jam on the Duwamish River.

Finn was on his own. He survived by becoming a newsboy, dealing with the same fundamental challenges Jason had faced himself as a street kid—how to survive in an unfamiliar environment, how to read people and situations, and how to find his place in a world that didn't give a damn about him.

His other protagonist was a nineteen-year-old blue-blooded society girl determined to become a newspaper reporter à la Nellie Bly and Annie Laurie.

Both of them would team up, travel to the Klondike and have a grand adventure.

The historical setting allowed Jason to explore themes of individual survival and friendship.

Seattle at the time was filled with energy and optimism, and at times, despair, as the boom and bust cycles of the 19th century played out. Young Finnegan survived it all. He explored the emergence of a major city with optimism tempered by streetwise cynicism.

Jason quickly incorporated writing into his morning routine. While he had no mission yet, he did have a new purpose. That would have to do for now.

 

Chapter 6

The seminar was called “The Ambiguous Word: Translation, History, and the Dangers of Cultural Blindness.” It was a required course that Professor Williams taught every year for new graduate students.

She was a popular lecturer—a sharp-eyed, slender, middle-aged woman with a sunny smile who favored the Socratic practice of dialogue over traditional lecturing.

Professor Williams went around the room and asked for practical examples of cultural blindness. As usual, Jason made it a point to keep his mouth shut. His experience was so vastly different from the others that he almost always felt out of place in discussions like this.

“Mr. Stone, you must have seen quite a few examples of this phenomenon.”

“Actually, I can give you a pretty good example,” he said.

The class leaned in slightly. This mysterious, good-looking guy never talked about his own experiences.

“The Army sent me to the DLI—Defense Language Institute. They wanted me to learn Kurdish and Dari. Sixty-three weeks for Kurdish, another forty-seven for Dari. It’s the most intensive language training in the world.”

Jason's voice took on a different quality, more reflective. “I thought I was supposed to learn to translate, you know? Tactical stuff. 'Where are the weapons?' 'How many fighters?' Basic interrogation vocabulary.”

“My Dari instructor was a guy named Dr. Hosseini. An Iranian exile, maybe in his sixties. One day, he writes a line on the board in Persian script. Beautiful script, calligraphy like art. He says, 'Sgt. Stone, can you tell me what this says?’”

Jason turned back to the class. “I'm thinking it's going to be military terminology, right? Maybe something about weapons or tactics. So, I sound it out phonetically, translating word by word. 'The... breeze... at... dawn... has... secrets... to... tell... you.'“

“I sit back down, proud of myself. Dr. Hosseini, he just smiles and says, 'That's Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi. Thirteenth-century Sufi mystic. Now tell me what it means.' And I'm looking at him like he's crazy because I just told him what it says. But he shakes his head. 'No, Mr. Stone. You told me what the words mean. What does the sentence mean?'“

The classroom was completely silent now.

“Took me three months to understand what he was getting at. See, I thought language was just... translation. An English word equals a Dari word, right? But Dr. Hosseini kept giving us poetry, philosophy, these Persian texts that were eight hundred years old and still relevant. Slowly, I began to realize—when you truly learn a language, you don't just learn words; you have to learn how an entire culture thinks.”

Jason's voice grew quieter. “There's this concept in Dari—'ta'arof.' There's no direct English translation. In the Islamic context it’s the process of finding a suitable marriage partner. In the Persian context it’s a sophisticated system of showing respect. For example, when someone offers you tea, you should refuse twice before accepting. Not because you don't want tea, but because accepting too quickly implies they're obligated to serve you.”

He looked around the room. “Took me months to understand that. Once I did, I realized how many cultural landmines you could step on just by being direct. In American culture, we value straightforwardness. In Persian culture, that can be seen as insulting or aggressive.”

“It changed how I saw everything.” Jason's voice was almost confessional now. “By my second year, I was dreaming in and thinking in Dari. The interesting thing is that when you think in another language, you think differently. The grammar is different, the metaphors are different, and the entire logical structure is different.”

“Dr. Hosseini used to say, 'Americans think in straight lines. Persians think in spirals.' And he was right. In Persian poetry, you approach truth indirectly, through layers of meaning. In Kurdish oral tradition, stories have multiple interpretations depending on your audience and your relationship to the speaker.”

He realized he was lecturing the class, blushed, and started to sit down.

“Not so Mr. Stone. This is fascinating, please go on.”

Jason nodded and turned to Emma Wilson, who happened to be sitting next to him.

“Okay. Hey, Emma, I apologize in advance for embarrassing you, but would you mind if I used you as an illustration? I promise to keep it academic.”

She looked surprised at being singled out. “I... okay?”

“People in different cultures and speak different languages pay attention to different things and organize their thoughts differently. For example, if your language doesn’t have words for individual numbers, you can’t count the way we do. You might say 'a small herd' to describe the seven cows we see in the pasture.

“Here’s how the same observation—the same truth—gets expressed completely differently depending on cultural thinking patterns.” Jason stood up, moving to the front of the class. “American directness versus Persian poetic tradition.”

He cleared his throat. “So, the Western way first. Emma, I can see that you're intelligent and highly articulate. You challenge ideas effectively. Physically, you have striking green eyes and dark hair; you dress professionally, you're confident in discussions, and you're not afraid to disagree with people.”

“That's a direct observation, straightforward assessment.”

Emma's cheeks reddened.

“Now, a Persian poet—someone thinking in that spiraling, metaphorical tradition of Dari—would describe you much differently.”

He paused, closed his eyes, and switched almost into a different rhythm of speech, more measured, more musical. His arms began to move slowly, dramatically.

“In this ancient garden of discourse, there blooms a flower whose petals unfold in shades of the forest at autumn. One whose voice carries the music of a mountain stream questioning the stones in its path. Her words are like arrows shot by a master archer—they find their mark not through anger, but through the precision that comes from understanding the weight of the bow and the necessity of the shot. When she speaks, it is as if the evening star has chosen to debate with the dawn, neither yielding, both essential for the completion of the sky.”

The classroom had gone utterly silent. Emma stared at him, her mouth open.

Jason began pacing slowly, his hands moving as if he were painting the words in the air.

“Behold one whose eyes are like twin emeralds that catch the first light of a summer dawn—not the sun-drenched green of new grass, but the deep green of forest pools where ancient wisdom sleeps. Her eyes are doorways through which the fresh soul of inquiry gazes out at the world, seeking always the question behind the question, the truth that hides beneath the surface of foolish answers.”

A mutter from the back, “Holy shit.” Immediately shushed from others.

Jason continued, his voice taking on an hypnotic quality. “'Her hair falls like the curtain of night that draws across the evening sky, not the empty darkness of absence, but the rich darkness of possibility—within which stars are born and dreams take their first breath. When she moves, it is with the purposeful grace of water finding its way to the sea, neither hurried nor hesitant, but flowing according to laws older than human understanding.'“

“And the maiden’s mind is a garden where thoughts grow and bloom like roses—each carefully tended, each pruned with the precision of one who knows that truth, like beauty, requires cultivation. When she speaks in challenge, it is not the thorny defensiveness of those who guard falsehood, but the protective vigilance of the gardener who allows only the strongest plants to flourish.”

Emma was now completely still, her green eyes wide.

“Her spirit burns with the steady flame of the scholar's lamp—not the wild fire that consumes all it touches, but the contained flame that illuminates without destroying, that warms without burning. In the assembly of voices, hers rises like the call of the mountain bird at dawn: clear, unafraid, carrying messages between earth and sky so that lesser creatures comprehend.”

Jason's voice grew softer, more reverent. “The curve of her smile holds the secret that the crescent moon whispers to the night sky—that beauty is not mere decoration upon the world, but the signature of the divine artist, the proof that creation itself delights in its own reflection. When she laughs, it is as if pearls were scattered across silk, each sound a treasure that the heart gathers and holds against the winter days when laughter grows scarce.'“

His voice resumed its normal matter-of-fact tone. “See what I mean? Same observations. Same truths. But in Persian tradition, you don't just describe someone's intelligence—you locate it in the context of natural order, cosmic balance. You don't just say someone has pretty eyes—you connect their beauty to the eternal patterns that make life meaningful.”

He sat back down.

“That's what I mean about different ways of thinking. The American version is efficient, clear, practical. The Persian version is... well, it's trying to understand how individual beauty fits into universal beauty, how one person's intelligence reflects the intelligence that runs through everything.”

The silence stretched for nearly a full minute. Emma was staring at her hands, her cheeks flushed.

Finally, Sarah whispered, “That was... wow.”

Professor Williams cleared her throat. “The difference in approach is quite striking.”

Sarah spoke up. “But which one is more true?”

“They're both true. That’s the problem,” Jason replied. “They're just asking different questions. The American version asks, 'What can I observe?' The Persian version asks, 'What does this observation reveal about the nature of our existence?' And that's why cultural misunderstandings happen. When an Afghan elder speaks to you in that metaphorical, layered way, and you respond with American directness, you're not just using different words—you’re operating in completely different philosophical frameworks.”

Professor Williams leaned forward. “So in diplomatic or military contexts...”

“Disaster,” Jason said flatly. “I've watched American officers get frustrated because Afghan leaders wouldn't give them straightforward answers. But from the Afghan perspective, straightforward answers are almost insultingly incomplete—they suggest the listener isn't worth the courtesy of proper consideration and poetic reflection.”

He looked around the room. “When Hassan wanted to tell me that a planned operation was too dangerous, he didn't say, 'Sergeant, this is a really dumb idea.' He’d tell me a story about a young falcon who ignored his father's warnings about flying too high. He'd been giving me tactical advice through poetry.”

Emma was still processing. “So when you described me the Persian way... were you thinking in Dari?”

“Yeah,” Jason admitted. “That's what I mean about dreaming in another language. Sometimes when I think about beauty, or courage, or intelligence in that language, the metaphors come automatically. Gardens, celestial bodies, flowing water—that's how the culture has taught me to understand those concepts.”

Trevor raised his hand. “But doesn't that make communication incredibly inefficient?”

“It depends on what you're trying to communicate,” Jason replied. “If you want to relay tactical information quickly, American directness wins every time. But if you're trying to convey respect, build long-term relationships, or address complex social dynamics...” He shrugged. “Sometimes the long way around is the only way that actually gets you there. Inefficient or not, that’s the way things are.”

Emma was quiet for a moment, then spoke up. “I have to admit, the Persian version made me think about myself differently. Like, the American version describes what I do. The Persian version suggests... purpose? Meaning?”

Trevor was shaking his head. “But how do you have a normal conversation if everything is that... elaborate?”

“You don't have normal conversations,” Jason replied. “You have meaningful ones. Every interaction becomes an opportunity to acknowledge the sacred in the ordinary, to connect individual experience to universal truth.”

Jason looked back at Emma. “And when a Persian poet describes beauty the way I just did, they're not giving a compliment. They're saying, 'You are part of the pattern that makes existence meaningful. Your individual beauty reflects the beauty that runs through everything. Your responsibility is not just to be beautiful, but to understand that your beauty is a manifestation of Allah’s wish.'“

Emma was quiet for a long moment. “That's... that's a lot of responsibility.”

“It's a different worldview,” Jason said. “In American culture, we try to make people comfortable with themselves as individuals. In Persian culture, they try to make you aware of yourself as part of Allah’s story.”

“You want to know when I really understood how much I don't know?” He closed the notebook. “It wasn't in Iraq or Afghanistan. It started in a classroom in Monterey, California, when I was nineteen years old.

 

Chapter 7

The discussion had started innocuously enough. The seminar was History of US Foreign Intervention from Viet Nam to Afghanistan. It mainly dealt with the clash of worldviews. But twenty minutes in, it had devolved into exactly the kind of naive conversation that made Jason's stomach clench.

“I mean, at the end of the day,” said Trevor, a confident twenty-four-year-old whose father worked at the State Department, “democracy is a universal human value. People everywhere want freedom and self-determination. The problem in Iraq wasn't about our ideals—it was about how we executed them.”

A few heads nodded around the table. Jason's pen had stopped moving.

“The Iraqis just needed time to understand democratic institutions,” Trevor continued. “You can't expect people who've lived under dictatorship to immediately grasp complex political processes. They’re ignorant, but given education and support—”

“Stop.” Jason's voice cut across the room like a blade. “Just... stop right there.”

Professor O’Hara, who had been moderating, raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Stone, do you have a different perspective?”

“I have twelve years of perspective,” Jason said, closing his notebook. “And Trevor just said about six things that got a lot of people killed.”

The room went quiet. Trevor's face flushed. “I'm not sure what you mean—”

“You said democracy is a universal human value. Based on what?” Jason's voice was controlled, but there was steel underneath. “Because I spent two years living with the Kurds in northern Iraq, and let me tell you what they value: family, tribe, religious obligation, honor, and raising their kids. Western-style democracy is not on the list.”

He leaned forward. “You said they needed education about democratic institutions. Here's what you don't understand—these people have been governing themselves for thousands of years. They have systems, traditions, and ways of resolving disputes and allocating resources that work for them. They don't need us to teach them about politics.”

Trevor tried to interject. “But surely you're not arguing that tribal governance is as effective as…”

“As effective at what?” Jason interupted. “At keeping communities stable? At resolving conflicts without mass casualties? At maintaining social cohesion across generations? Because I've got news for you—a lot of tribal systems do that way better than the City of Seattle does.”

Professor O’Hara gestured for calm. “Jason, can you elaborate on what you mean by cultural misunderstanding affecting military outcomes?”

Jason took a breath, visibly re-centering himself. “We in the West have a smug superiority that blinds us. In 2006, I was part of a team trying to set up local councils in Mosul. Our brilliant political officers—guys just like Trevor here—kept talking about 'bringing democracy to the people.' You know what happened? We got thirty-seven of our local allies killed in the first month.”

The room was dead silent now.

“See, we thought we understood the situation. Sunni versus Shia, right? Simple religious conflict between ignorant peasants. Like the Democrats vs. the Republicans. What we didn't understand was that in Iraqi tribal culture, the Shia weren't just the wrong religion—they were collaborators with Iran, historical enemies who had spent decades oppressing the Sunni. It wasn't a theological disagreement. It was a blood feud going back generations. We have nothing in our culture that approaches that level of hatred. So we don’t understand it.”

Jason's voice grew harder. “Our political geniuses thought we could just set up mixed councils, get everyone talking, and democracy would bloom. Instead, we painted targets on anyone who worked with us. These weren't ignorant farmers who didn't understand freedom. These were sophisticated people who understood exactly what we were asking them to do—commit cultural and political suicide. In some cases, their own relatives killed them.”

Trevor looked like he wanted to argue but couldn't find the words.

“And the tribal thing?” Jason continued. “We kept trying to explain individual voting, secret ballots, majority rule. You know what that meant to them? That we wanted them to betray their family obligations, abandon their elders' wisdom, and let strangers make decisions about their families. Would you do that?”

He rubbed his face. “The worst part is, it's always the same story. Politicians hire smart guys who read books and write position papers while they sit in air-conditioned offices in Washington and decide that this time, in this war, we'll bring enlightenment to the backward natives. Then they pick up the phone, call the Pentagon, and send kids from Ohio, Texas, and Alabama to die to enforce their theories and beliefs. And by the way, make damn sure the oil keeps flowing.”

His voice cracked slightly. “I lost three team members trying to protect an Iraqi mayor who we insisted on electing democratically. You know what his own tribe did to him? They killed him. Not because they hated democracy—because we'd made him choose between our system and his family's honor. We forced him to dishonor his faith, and then we acted surprised when they treated him like a traitor.”

Professor Williams leaned forward. “So what should the approach have been?”

Jason turned back to the class. “I have no idea, really. How do you change a millennia-old culture? But sloppy logic and meaningless abstractions aren’t the answer. Maybe we could have learned their ways first. Found out how they actually make decisions, who they actually respect, and what they actually need. Maybe we could have worked within their structures instead of trying to replace them.”

Trevor finally found his voice. “But surely you're not arguing that traditional tribal systems are preferable to democratic institutions—”

“I'm arguing that you don't understand either system well enough to make that judgment,” Jason replied. “And I'm arguing that your ignorance gets people killed.”

The room was silent for a long moment. Sarah, who had been taking notes frantically, looked up.

“So when you say politicians are simplistic...”

“I mean that they think in sound bites and talking points,” Jason said. “Democracy good, dictatorship bad. Freedom universal, tradition backward. It's kindergarten-level analysis, but it sounds good on CNN or Fox. Meanwhile, kids from small towns who enlisted because they couldn't afford college are getting blown up because their leaders can’t be bothered to understand the people they're fighting. The last president who really understood how the world works was George H. W. Bush. There was a reason he stopped us when he did in the Gulf War.”

The silence stretched until Professor Williams finally spoke. “This raises important questions about cultural humility in foreign policy...”

But most of the class was still processing what Jason had said, particularly Trevor, who was staring at his notes with a troubled expression.

As students began to pack up, Jason caught Trevor by the door.

“Look,” he said quietly, “I'm not trying to humiliate you. You're smart, you're educated and you want to make a difference. But if you're going to work in this field, you need to understand something: every culture has a wisdom we don't possess. Our job isn't to judge them or fix them. It's to understand them well enough that when we do interact, people don't die because of our ignorance.”

Trevor nodded slowly. “I... I think I need to rethink some things.”

“Good,” Jason said. “Because the kids who'll implement your policies in the future deserve better than good intentions backed by cultural arrogance.”

Chapter 8

 

The isolating effects of civilian life crept up on him. During his military years, he'd been surrounded by teammates, brothers-in-arms who understood him without explanation. The transition to civilian life had left him feeling alone in ways he hadn't anticipated. Not socially - he had colleagues, students, acquaintances - but emotionally. There were parts of his experience that was untranslatable to people who hadn't lived similar lives.

When he mentioned a feeling of apartness to Dr. Longwell, she encouraged him to date. “Loneliness and isolation are big contributors to PTSD. Get your butt out there and date and try to have fun.”

His first serious attempt at dating was a woman named Rachel Morrison, a high school math teacher who'd been dropping hints for months at the coed volleyball he joined. When he finally asked her to dinner and a movie, she seemed as surprised as she was pleased.

“I was beginning to think you were completely oblivious,” she said over pasta at an Italian restaurant in Ballard.

“Not oblivious,” Jason replied. “Just busy.”

Rachel was intelligent, attractive in a understated way, and easy to talk to. She shared stories about her students, asked thoughtful questions about his writing, and seemed genuinely interested in his transition from military to civilian life. But when she leaned across the table and placed her hand over his, Jason felt nothing beyond friendly affection.

They dated for six weeks, during which Jason learned important things about himself. He enjoyed female companionship, liked the sex, and found comfort in the routine of shared activities. But physical attraction was more complex than he'd expected. It wasn't just about appearance - it was about something ineffable, a combination of chemistry, humor, and the ability to be unselfconscious together.

“You're a good guy, Jason,” she said when they mutually agreed to end the romantic aspect of their relationship. “But I don't think you're ready for what I need. And that's okay - we can be friends.”

She was right. He was still learning how to be open, how to let someone see the parts of himself that weren't composed and competent. He was tired of one night stands and his failures in his first marriage still haunted him.

His next relationship came from an unexpected direction. Elena Rodriguez was a public defender, a younger sister of one of his softball buddies. She was brilliant, passionate about social justice.

“So you were one of those special ops guys who killed people for a living?” she asked over coffee after the hearing.

“Yup, a regular GI Joe,” Jason said good humoredly.

“And now you’re a grad student. That's quite a career change.”

“Yeah, I‘m trying to find myself,” he said with his usual self effacement. Then he quickly changed the subject to her job. He had long ago learned that discussing his military experience with a civilian was a no win proposition.

Elena challenged him intellectually in ways he hadn't experienced since language school. She was fiercely intelligent, well-read, and unafraid to disagree with him about politics, philosophy, or social issues. Their dinner conversations often lasted past midnight, ranging from criminal justice reform to foreign policy to the role of education in addressing inequality.

Sex with her was wild as well. She was a passionate woman.

But Elena was also dealing with her own demons. The constant exposure to human tragedy in her work had left her cynical and emotionally guarded. She was by nature combative.

He needed peaceful.

They ended things semi-amicably, but the relationship taught Jason something important about himself: he was attracted to strength, but he needed someone who was strong and smart but confident enough to be silly, secure enough to be a partner.

The pattern continued through a series of relationships. Amanda, a documentary filmmaker who traveled constantly for work. Dr. Jennifer Kim, a neuroscientist at UW who was brilliant but had never learned to relax. Lisa Thompson, a successful tech executive who approached romance like an accountant doing an audit.

Each relationship taught Jason something about himself and what he was looking for. He discovered that he was genuinely interested in people - their stories, their motivations, their dreams and fears. He found intellectual conversation energizing, appreciated ambition and competence, and was drawn to women who had overcome challenges to achieve their goals.

But he was alert for red flags. He didn’t spent time with women who were rude to others. Smug and stupid were big turnoffs no matter how hot the body was. But he also learned that his criteria for physical intimacy were, as more than one date observed, unusual. He’d had plenty of one night stands after his divorce—too many. These days Jason didn't sleep with someone just because he found them attractive or enjoyed their company. Something deeper had to click - a combination of trust, humor, and the ability to be completely unselfconscious together.

“You're looking for someone you can laugh with in bed after a good fuck,” Elena had observed with a smile. “Not just physical compatibility, but emotional safety. That's actually pretty healthy. Are you sure you’re not a woman.”

“Pretty sure.”

The relationship that seemed to stick began at a charity fundraiser one of his softball buddies talked him into attending. Victoria Carter was there as a guest speaker, discussing her work with an organization that provided scholarships for underprivileged kids.

Jason knew who she was, of course. Victoria Carter had been on magazine covers, in television commercials, and was generally considered one of the most beautiful women in the world. But meeting her in person, he was struck more by her intelligence and humor than by her obvious physical beauty.

Their conversation revealed that she was more complex than her public image suggested. She'd grown up on Long Island, New York. Her father was a publisher. She had been a cheerleader and honor student in high school. She had started modeling as a side gig to pay for her and her sister’s apartment in Manhattan. She was now transitioning into philanthropy and social advocacy, using her fame to address issues she cared about.

“Most people assume modeling is just about being pretty,” she said. “But it's actually about understanding psychology - how to project confidence, how to connect with a camera, how to embody an idea or emotion. It's performance art.”

Jason was confident in himself to thoroughly enjoy her company. She was quick-witted, self-deprecating about her career, and refreshingly direct in her communication. She liked to laugh.

The relationship developed slowly. Victoria was dealing with her own issues, given the number of assholes she met on a daily basis, trust didn’t come easy. She was learning to value her mind rather than her appearance. Jason appreciated her intelligence and her sense of humor, the way she could laugh at herself and the absurdities of her former career.

“You know what I like about you?” she said one evening as they strolled around Green Lake. “You look at me like I'm a person, not a hot body. Do you know how rare that is for me?”

“Well in my defense you do have a hot body, but you laugh at my jokes that’s way more important.”

She slapped his shoulder and they walked along Green Lake with a smile on their faces.

Their first kiss happened on Jason's apartment balcony, after an evening spent cooking dinner and talking about their respective career transitions. It was gentle, unhurried, and felt completely natural. But when Victoria suggested staying the night, Jason hesitated.

“I'm interested,” he said carefully. “But I’ve learned to move slowly with physical relationships. It's not about you - it's about me needing to feel completely comfortable.”

Victoria studied him for a beat, then smiled. “You know, most guys would have already tried to get me into the sack on the first date. Your restraint is actually kind of sexy.”

“It's not restraint, exactly. It's more like... sex with friends is a lot more fun. I don’t like to wake up with regrets.”

“What does that mean?”

Jason considered how to explain it. “I need to know that if I woke up next to you tomorrow morning, I could be silly. Goofy. That I could make terrible jokes and sing off-key in the shower and you'd laugh with me, not be calculating how many of my sheets you’d need to tie together to escape out the window as soon as I get in the shower.”

Victoria's smile turned bright. “If that’s a common occurrence with your sexual partners after a night with you. I gotta tell you I’m having serious second thoughts.”

He burst out laughing. “You are such a bitch.”

That was the beginning.

Three weeks later, after an evening when they'd spent two hours assembling IKEA furniture and had dissolved into helpless laughter when Jason misread the instructions and built half a bookshelf upside down, Victoria looked at him and said, “I think I could definitely giggle with you tomorrow morning.”

She was right. The next morning, sipping coffee while lying in his bed as rain drummed against the windows, they shared the kind of easy intimacy that felt both new and familiar. Victoria told embarrassing stories from her modeling days, Jason shared ridiculous anecdotes from military training, and they both laughed until their sides hurt.

“This is nice,” Victoria said, tracing patterns on Jason's chest. “I'd forgotten what it felt like to be completely relaxed with someone. But just for future information, where do you keep the spare sheets.”

She got the giggles when he snorted coffee out his nose.

The relationship deepened over the following months. Victoria became a regular presence when she wasn’t traveling.

 

 

Chapter 9

Barbara Caine was in a mood. Her research on Abigail Scott Duniway, a prominent pioneer suffragist and women's rights advocate, was not going well. Her thesis advisor had punctured her dreams of getting her PhD this year with a few sharp questions about the direction she wanted to go, so it was back to the fucking drawing board.

The other issue was that she hated her job. Editing was soul-killing. It paid the bills, but she had long ago lost the taste for nurturing writers to realize their dreams. To her, “paying your dues” wasn't a quaint rite of passage; it was the only thing that separated a writer from a delusionist with a laptop.

Her office, a sanctum of organized chaos, was a reflection of her mind piles of legal pads with scribbled notes white board covered with post it notes and book piled everywhere. A Starbucks cup with the dregs of an Americano sat beside her perpetually glowing screen.

The bell chimed, announcing her 2:00 PM appointment. A tall, good-looking guy with gorgeous brown eyes filled the doorway. He was about her age, his confident smile seeming to take up all the available light.

An asshole bro was her first, second, and third thought. He looked like the kind of guy who’d been told his entire life that he was special. His worn levis and crisp white shirt and fucking Rolex only served to reinforce the message.

“Ms. Barbara Caine?” he asked, his voice smooth and rumbly.

“Last I checked.”

He chuckled, a sound that probably worked wonders at cocktail parties.

“My name is Jason Stone. I have a manuscript that needs editing.” He held up a flash drive.

“Let me guess,” she drawled, leaning back in her chair. “It's the next great American novel. A groundbreaking tale of a lone hero, a chosen one, a journey of self-discovery, probably with some vague spiritual metaphors.”

His smile faltered. “No, it's a YA historical set in 1895 Seattle.”

Barbara held up a hand. “Listen, handsome, let's be clear on one thing. I don’t coddle egos. My job, which I fuckin' hate, is to tell you your book is trash, so you can go back and do the work. I don't give gold stars for effort. Are we clear?”

Those brown eyes now were cool. “Crystal,” he said. He turned and walked out.

What the fuck?

He didn't argue, he didn't whine, and he didn't try to tell her that her “attitude” was unprofessional. He just... left.

This wasn't how the script went. The script ended with them either cowering or storming out in a huff, validating her belief that they weren't serious.

She got up and followed him down the hall and heard him ask Amy their work study receptionist. “Is there anyone else who does editing here?”

She peeked around the corner. Fuck, the guy was tall. An odd mix of personal pique and curiosity bubbled up inside her.

“Wait. Hold on,” she said, “I apologize for my attitude. It's been a bad day. Show me your shit and we'll see.”

He turned and held her gaze with steady appraisal. Without a word, he pulled the flash drive from his pocket and held it out.

“My contact information is on the first page. I would appreciate it if you would let me know as soon as you can if you can work with this.”

He turned and walked away.

Back in her office, she slid the drive into her laptop and opened “Chilkoot Pass: The Adventures of Finnegan Sheehy” half hoping it would turn out to be crap.

 

 

June the thirtieth, in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and ninety-seven, was proving to be one of the bad days. Intermittent rain squalls had kept the good citizens of the city indoors and twelve-year-old Finnegan Meehan found himself in a predicament—forty newspapers yet remained unsold from his customary purchase of one hundred copies. The proceeds from those sales, six precious dimes were now secreted away in the toe of his worn boots, safe from pickpockets and his own rumbling belly. No matter how fierce his hunger grew, that money was sacred—his stake for tomorrow's papers. The remaining forty copies represented food and shelter. Fail to sell them, he would go hungry and have to sleep out in the cold.

As he stood beneath the dripping awning of Brennan's Haberdashery, a magnificent coach drew up to the curb and stopped with a flourish. The conveyance was a sight to behold—lacquered black with brass fittings that gleamed despite the gray afternoon, coachman garbed in a top hot. It drawn by a perfectly matched pair of Missouri mules whose coats shone a shiny black.

“You there, boy! Come here at once!” The voice that rang out from the carriage’s velvet interior brooked no argument, the tone of one accustomed to immediate obedience.

Silas hastened to the carriage door, his newspapers clutched tight against his threadbare coat. Experience had taught him that wealthy toffs sometimes proved generous, occasionally bestowing a whole dime for a penny paper.

A leather gloved hand appeared, gesturing impatiently for him to enter the carriage. A girl of perhaps eighteen years wrinkled her aristocratic nose at the smell of his damp moth-eaten wool sweater, the last thing he had that his ma had made for him.

The girl had lustrous chestnut hair arranged in the latest Gibson Girl fashion, and cornflower-blue eyes that now seemed irritated. Her dress and her confident manner spoke of a life of luxury.

“I shall give you five dollars,” she announced, “if you can instruct me in the art of conducting oneself as a boy.”

Young Finn jaw dropped. Five dollars! Why, that was more money than he made in a month of hawking papers. Then his hard learned street cynicism kicked in.

Too much money. It was a trick.

“Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but I got papers to sell,” he stammered, reaching for the door handle with one grimy hand.

“Oh, for pity’s sake!” she exclaimed with obvious exasperation. “Here is one dollar—Is that enough to buy the rest of your papers?”

Silas immediately thrust out his palm, “Done and done, miss!”

Then, with the blunt honesty of youth, he gestured toward her unmistakably feminine figure. “But miss... you’re a girl.”

Her blue eyes flashed. “Are you a complete nincompoop? Of course I know I’m a girl! But I have every intention of traveling to the Klondike Territory to report upon the gold rush for the newspapers, and that odious clod Mr. Beriah Brown Jr. has refused to engage my services purely on account of my sex.”

Silas snorted. “Well, ‘course he won’t hire no girl! Who hires a girl in such rough business as newspaper reporting?”

He was later to smile at his presumption, but it wasn’t the first or the last time that a male underestimated Miss Mary Penrose.

 

Three hours later, she sat back in her chair and closed the file. The prose was plain and spare, the voice immediately compelling. The asshole hadn't written a bloated epic or a half-baked fantasy. He had written a beautifully contained story about a boy surviving selling newspapers in 1895 Seattle. The dialogue was sharp, the emotional core was real, and the whole thing hummed with authentic research.

Damn, the asshole was a writer.

She picked up the phone and stared at it for a full minute before dialing. This was not a call she wanted to make. Eating crow was never pleasant, but eating crow in front of a guy who had remained completely unruffled by her deliberate nastiness felt particularly galling.

The phone rang twice before his calm voice answered. “Jason Stone.”

“It's Barbara Caine. We met earlier.”

“I remember. What’s the verdict?”

Straight to the point. No games, no fishing for compliments. Barbara found herself grudgingly appreciating his directness.

“Okay, your novel doesn't suck,” she said, which was about as close to an apology as she was capable of. “Can you come talk to me?”

“When?”

“Now, if you're available.”

“I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

By the time he showed up, Barbara had cleared a chair of manuscripts and got herself a fresh coffee. She had also taken five minutes to think why his calm reaction to her hostility had unsettled her so much.

Most people who walked into her office fell into predictable categories: the defensive ones who argued with every critique, the desperate ones who begged her to find value in their work, and the entitled ones who expected praise for minimal effort.

This guy had been none of these things.

“Your book is good,” she said without preamble as he sat down. “Clean prose, authentic dialogue, solid historical research. The character voice is consistent, and the period details feel lived-in rather than researched.”

He nodded, his expression attentive.

“But it needs work. The pacing drags in the middle section, some of your historical exposition feels forced, and you're inconsistent with your protagonist's name—he's Finn in the opening paragraph, then Silas for the rest.”

“That's a mistake from an early draft. What about the structure?”

Barbara pulled up her notes on screen. “The setup works well—street kid meets wealthy girl with an impossible plan. But you're taking too long to get them on their journey. Young adult readers want faster pacing than adult historical fiction.”

“What should I have done?”

“Cut about fifteen percent from the setup chapters. Get Finn and Mary out of Seattle sooner. The real story is their relationship dynamic during the journey, not the extensive background about why she wants to be a reporter.”

He was taking notes; his questions focused on craft rather than ego defense. She found herself settling into the kind of editorial discussion she rarely had anymore—one where the writer was genuinely interested in improving the work rather than defending it.

“The historical research is solid,” she continued. “You clearly understand the period, the social dynamics, and the economic realities. But some of your exposition feels like you're showing off your knowledge rather than serving the story.”

“Can you give me a specific example?”

Barbara scrolled to a marked passage. “Here, where you describe the different classes of steamship accommodations. It's accurate and interesting, but it stops the narrative momentum. You could convey the same class distinctions through character actions and dialogue.”

“I have trouble with show, don't tell.”

“Exactly. You have to trust your readers to understand.”

They worked through several more structural and pacing issues, Jason asking practical questions about revision strategies. Barbara found herself giving more detailed feedback than she had in months, partly because the work merited it and partly because Jason's professional approach made the conversation feel collaborative rather than adversarial.

“What's your background?” she asked as they wrapped up the major structural points. “This reads like someone who understands both historical research and contemporary young adult expectations.”

“I used to be a soldier; now I’m a student working on my master’s in history.”

“So far I can see that you're not some delusional wannabe with a laptop.”

“No. I’m a just a guy trying to make his book as strong as possible.”

“And do I meet your criteria for an editor,” she asked.

Jason's slight smile was the first crack in his professional composure she'd seen. “You spoke to the quality of the work despite being deliberately hostile. That suggests you know what you're doing, even if you don't enjoy doing it.”

Barbara felt an unfamiliar flush of professional pride. She'd been operating on editorial autopilot for so long that she'd forgotten what it felt like to have her expertise acknowledged by someone whose opinion mattered.

“So will you work with me on this?” he asked.

She looked at the manuscript on her screen, then at the writer across from her desk. The work was good enough to be satisfying to edit, and he seemed competent enough to make the process efficient.