Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
He reached for the heavy canvas strap of my duffel bag, but I stepped in front of it, my boots planting firmly on the concrete. I did not want his hands on my gear. He had a nervous twitch in his fingers, his thumb searching for the silver lighter again through the thin fabric of his pocket.
“I will keep my bags with me,” I said.
“Suit yourself,” Chad said, turning back toward his dusty sedan. “See you at the Griddle. Don’t be late. Dad hates waiting.”
He got into his car and backed out of the driveway, his front bumper scraping slightly on the curb as he swung onto Maggie Street.
I stood on the driveway for a long minute, looking at the bungalow. The small lawn was long overdue for a mow, the wild dandelions growing thick around the concrete path. It was only late August, but the place already had the look of an abandoned property.
