The perfectly
manicured lawn, well-tended vegetable garden, and mature orange trees sat in
stark contrast to the overgrown hedges in front of Patrick Field’s house. After
15 minutes of pacing the backyard, Santos’ stomach made the decision for him. He
chose the plumpest, juiciest looking orange he could reach, and ripped it out
of the tree. As he began the annoying task of peeling it, Brimley popped her
head around the side of the house.
“What are you
doing, soldier?” she yelled in the deepest voice she could manage while
stifling laughter.
Startled,
Santos nearly dropped the partially peeled orange. He spun around, holding the
orange down by his thigh. “I should ask you the same thing,” he growled.
“You’re supposed to be guarding the front.”
She glared at
him. Aside from a couple bullies in grade school, she’d never wanted to beat
the crap out of someone like she wanted to beat Santos. “Orders change. We’re
moving out. Your Colonel wants to see you. Now.
Looks like you’ll have to save the snack for later, sweetheart.” Brimley relished throwing the word, tone, and
inflection back in his face.
