Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 66205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
The humor fades, and you brush a hand over the notebook. “I feel like I’m suffering from a split personality or something,” you admit. “On the one hand, I want to spend the rest of my life building what we’ve already started. Our home and all the future additions. All the projects.”
I’m not worried, because I’ve sort of seen this coming.
The first time you went to college, you couldn’t pick a major. Now, you can’t commit to the program that would make you an EMT, which is the only profession you’ve researched properly. But something’s missing. You’re more naturally drawn to courses on combat and field medicine.
At the same time, you don’t want to go back to school.
“And on the other hand?” I prod gently.
You look a little hesitant. “That’s the thing, I’m not sure. I want to build something and help others, I want to stay at home more, I want you to be home more, I wanna stay safe, I wanna help others get their freedoms back…”
There we have it, don’t we?
“Can’t we find a compromise? A happy medium?” I wonder.
You wrinkle your forehead in skepticism. “I can’t say in one breath that I don’t wanna miss a minute of our kids growing up, then say I wanna help victims regain their freedoms,” you state. “Moreover, I refuse to take risks that jeopardize what we have.”
Yeah, that’s a…pickle.
“I wanna build something with you, Dare…” You step closer and slip your arms around my middle, and I feel like I’m missing something. Aren’t we already building our future? “Is the restaurant your passion?”
I lift a brow.
Stop bullshitting me, baby. You know what you want, don’t you? You’ve come up with something.
Besides, you know I opened the fish camp to build up a network. And I needed a job once I got out of the PMC field. A desk job’s never suited me, and I wanna be my own boss. After that, I’m pretty flexible.
I enjoy my business; it keeps me moving, profit’s decent, but my passion is up in Westslope.
“Lay it on me, knucklehead.” I bump my forehead to yours. “What is it you want?”
You swallow and ghost your fingers absently over my chest. “I was thinking—after the World War II exhibit we went to at that museum yesterday, you know, about the runaways who found shelter during the war?”
I nod, with you so far.
“Well, what if the people I wanna make sure get their freedoms back don’t lose them in the first place?” You speak in a rush all of a sudden. “Jonas, Niko, Fil, they all ran away from home—if they had one in the first place.”
“Okay…” I furrow my brow. “You wanna open a shelter?”
“No.” You twist your lips between your fingers and hesitate. “More like a safehouse? A place they can run away to instead of, you know, ending up in a bad crowd or much, much worse.”
A safehouse.
Huh.
“I talked a little with Niko about it,” you admit. “He’s fumbling too. He doesn’t know what he wants to do, and it’s like…we’re stuck in the middle. No regular fields appeal to us, but it’s not like we want to put our lives at risk again.”
I get that.
“So what do you picture this safehouse being like?” I pull you away from the railing and usher you over to the uncomfortable café chairs and table. So fucking Paris of them. But I want you close, so I make sure you sit on my lap.
“Like our home,” you respond bluntly. “I don’t want it to be a hiding spot or a hotel. And Niko was like, when he lived on the streets and didn’t have anywhere to go, he meant it literally. Nobody hired him, nobody listened to him, nobody thought he was good for anything. But we know…” Your passion’s coming forward, knucklehead. I see it in your eyes. “You gave him a chance at the restaurant.”
Hell, I’m picturing it. You’re getting me hooked on the idea.
We have a big chunk of property.
“I guess that’s what I’m seeing,” you say quietly. “A place where someone gives you a chance—hard work, safety, a roof over your head. I mean, I still remember the feeling of putting my own dinner on the table, literally. From having watched the chicken grow up, caring for it, feeding it, collecting its eggs… I’ve read about farms similar to what I’d like to do.”
I’ve heard of those places as well.
A chance to make something of yourself. Rather than falling into a lifestyle of crime and drugs, learn to grow your food, pick up useful skills, sleep soundly at night.
More often than not, these young adults want to work and become something. But if they have no way of proving themselves, no one who believes in them, they’ll go to the first place that recruits them.