Chapter 10 - The General’s New CommandThree months later, the Upper East Side townhouse was no longer a museum of ghosts.

The heavy velvet drapes in the front parlor had been pulled back, letting the spring sunlight flood across polished hardwood floors that now echoed with the sound of running sneakers, muffled giggles, and the occasional sharp bark of a retired German Shepherd.
The dining room table for twelve was no longer an accusation. It was covered in glue, construction paper, glitter, and stray math homework.
In the back courtyard, where the coal chute used to open into the alley, a brand-new wrought-iron gate stood wide open, featuring a custom brass plaque engraved with two words: THE REAR GUARD.
Arthur Mitchell sat on the sunny back patio in his wheelchair, though the wool blanket was gone, replaced by a light cardigan knitted in emerald green.
He wasn't holding a letter of resignation. He was holding a grease-stained paperback book of adventure stories, reading aloud in a deep, theatrical voice to a half-dozen children of deployed soldiers who now lived in the upper rooms of the foundation house.
Maya sat on the arm of his chair, her legs swinging rhythmically, her emerald coat hanging neatly on a brass hook by the door.
"And then the dragon roared," Arthur read, pitching his voice down into a mock-terrified growl, "and demanded to know who had dared enter his castle without permission!"
"And what did the little girl say?" Maya prompted, nudging his shoulder with her elbow.
Arthur closed the book, laid it across his lap, and looked out over the sunlit courtyard where two hundred tiny yellow folding chairs were stacked neatly against the brick wall, waiting for the next deployment.
"She said," Arthur whispered, pulling the child close against his shoulder, "'Sir, can I give you a hug?'"
May you like
Maya threw her arms around his neck, her small, warm ribs heaving with laughter.
Arthur closed his eyes, inhaled the scent of soap and fresh spring air, and for the first time in three long years, didn't feel the need to look back at the past at all.