The Lucky One by Nicholas Sparks

catching a ride was unlikely. How far could he get by tomorrow afternoon? Twenty miles? Thirty at the most? No more than that, which meant he was still in the vicinity. He’d make some calls to a couple of other departments in the surrounding counties, ask them to keep an eye out. There weren’t that many roads leading out of the county, and he figured that if he spent a few hours making phone calls to some of the businesses along those routes, someone would spot the guy. When that happened, he’d be on his way. Thigh-bolt never should have messed with Keith Clayton.
    Lost in thought, Clayton barely heard the front door squeak open.
    “Hey, Dad?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Someone’s on the phone.”
    “Who is it?”
    “Tony.”
    “Of course it is.”
    He rose from his seat, wondering what Tony wanted. Talk about a loser. Scrawny and pimpled, he was one of those hangers-on who sat near the deputies, trying to worm his way into pretending he was one of them. He was probably wondering where Clayton was and what he was doing later because he didn’t want to be left out. Lame.
    He finished his beer on the way in and tossed it in the can, listening to it rattle. He grabbed the receiver from the counter.
    “Yeah?”
    In the background, he could hear the distorted chords of a country-western song playing on a jukebox and the dull roar of loud conversation. He wondered where the loser was calling from.
    “Hey, I’m at Decker’s Pool Hall, and there’s this strange dude here that I think you should know about.”
    His antenna went up. “Does he have a dog with him? Backpack? Kind of scruffy, like he’s been out in the woods for a while?”
    “No.”
    “You sure?”
    “Yeah, I’m sure. He’s shooting pool in the back. But listen. I wanted to tell you he’s got a picture of your ex-wife.”
    Caught off guard, Clayton tried to sound nonchalant. “So?” he said.
    “I just thought you’d want to know.”
    “Why would I give a holy crap about that?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Of course you don’t. Holler.”
    He hung up the phone, thinking the guy must have potato salad where his brains should be, and ran an appraising gaze over the kitchen. Clean as could be. Kid did a great job, as usual. He almost shouted that out from where he stood, but instead, as he caught sight of Ben, he couldn’t help but notice again how small his son was. Granted, a big chunk of that might be genetics, early or late growth spurts, and all that, but another part came from general health. It was common sense. Eat right, exercise, get plenty of rest. The basics; things everyone’s mother told their kids. And mothers were right. If you didn’t eat enough, you couldn’t grow. If you didn’t exercise enough, your muscles stagnated. And when do you think a person grew? Night. When the body regenerated. When people dreamed.
    He often wondered whether Ben got enough sleep at his mom’s. Clayton knew Ben ate—he’d finished his burger and fries—and he knew the kid was active, so maybe lack of sleep was keeping him small. Kid didn’t want to end up short, did he? Of course not. And besides, Clayton wanted a bit of alone time. Wanted to fantasize about what he was going to do to Thigh-bolt the next time he saw him.
    He cleared his throat. “Hey, Ben. It’s getting kind of late, don’t you think?”

6
    Thibault
    O n his way home from the pool hall, Thibault remembered his second tour in Iraq.
    It went like this: Fallujah, spring 2004. The First, Fifth, among other units, was ordered in to pacify the escalating violence since the fall of Baghdad the year before. Civilians knew what to expect and began to flee the city, choking the highways. Maybe a third of the city evacuated within a day. Air strikes were called in, then the marines. They moved block by block, house by house, room by room, in some of the most intense fighting since the opening days of the invasion. In three days, they controlled a quarter of the city, but the growing