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       8

       Then

      We’re moving,” said Fletcher’s dad, dropping a bomb into the middle of his senior year of high school.

      “Again?” Fletcher set aside his civics textbook and glared up at his father. The TV was blaring the news that never seemed to cease—the whole country was trying to figure out how to wage war against a terrorist group called the Taliban. Last September 11, the world had been turned inside out by the attacks on the Pentagon and World Trade Center. A couple of Fletcher’s buddies had already made commitments to enlist in the military as soon as school ended. Now, with his father’s sudden announcement, Fletcher contemplated enlisting. “I’m not going with you,” he stated.

      “You don’t have a choice. I need you, son. And you’re gonna love this,” Dad said, his eyes lighting the way they did when he was convinced he was onto something.

      Fletcher wasn’t convinced of anything. He glared at the TV, which showed soldiers being moved around the desert in lumbering transport vehicles. “When?” he demanded.

      “After Christmas break.”

      “Shit, Dad.” He looked around the little bungalow. Same shabby furniture they had schlepped from place to place, different house. He’d been okay with living in Dover, where they’d been since last summer. School here didn’t suck. He was looking at the home stretch toward graduation and thinking about what to do after. “Shit,” he said again.