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Though there were a few more families on his list he intended to see, the road trip had been cut short last October, when he learned that his grandma's time was running out. Somehow, despite their regular calls and texts, she'd neglected to mention that she'd been diagnosed with a terminal lung condition a few months earlier. He'd rushed to Pensacola, where he found her propped up in bed and attended by a caregiver. His first thought was that she seemed smaller than he remembered and her breathing was labored despite the oxygen tank, making speech slow and abbreviated. The visible reality of her condition made his stomach clench, and for the next few months, he rarely left her side. He took over much of her feeding and grooming, and often slept on a cot he'd set up in her bedroom. He made calorie-dense milkshakes and mashed her food until it was soft enough to be eaten by a baby; he tenderly brushed her thinning hair and applied balm to her cracked lips. In the afternoons, when she wasn't sleeping, he often read to her from a poetry collection by Emily Dickinson while she focused on the view outside her window.

Because speech became more difficult for her as the weeks went on, he did most of the talking. He told her about the Grand Canyon, Graceland, an ice hotel in northern Wisconsin, and a dozen other places, hoping she'd share in his enthusiasm, but instead, the concern in her expression spoke volumes. I'm worried about leaving you behind, she seemed to be saying, your life is unsettled. When he tried to explain again that his recent travels had been a way for him to honor the friends that he'd lost, she shook her head. "You need a...home," she rasped out, before succumbing to a prolonged coughing spasm. When she recovered, she motioned for him to hand her the pad of paper and pen on her nightstand. Find where you belong and make that place your own, she scrawled.

Knowing she'd be disappointed that he seemed no closer to settling down, he didn't tell her that Vince Thomas, an old friend of his from USAID, had reached out to him in January. Vince was leaving for a new gig in Africa. They'd worked together in Cameroon before, and he'd told Tanner that he needed a deputy head of security who was familiar with the country and its politics. Tanner could remember accepting the offer, thinking at the time that it felt like as good a next step as any.

Now, back on the interstate for the first time in months, the flat countryside of northern Florida passed in a lazy blur. After a quick visit with his best friend, Glen Edwards, and his family, Tanner planned to travel to Asheboro, North Carolina, wondering what, if anything, he would find.

Asheboro.

His grandma had written the name of that small town on a notepad, not long before she lapsed into a coma.

II

Like Pensacola, Eastern North Carolina was a favorite retirement destination for veterans, and after leaving Delta—army special forces—Glen had landed on his feet. He ran a tactical outfit there that trained police and SWAT teams from around the country, owned a home with his wife, Molly, in Pine Knoll Shores overlooking Bogue Sound, and was raising two kids, both approaching middle school age. Tanner wasn't surprised when Glen met him on the front porch with a bottle of beer as soon as Tanner had stepped out of the car; they'd been through so much together in the service that it almost seemed as though they could read each other's minds.

The house boasted high ceilings and gorgeous views and had the messy, lived-in look of a family, with backpacks piled in the corners and athletic gear stacked near the door. When the kids weren't demanding Glen's attention, they craved Tanner's, showing him video games or asking if he'd watch a movie with them. He loved it—he'd always liked kids—and Molly, with her easy smile and air of patience, was the kind of woman who brought out the best in Glen.

He spent three days with them, sharing meals and visiting the family. They went to the beach and the North Carolina Aquarium, and in the evenings, they'd chat on the back porch beneath a canopy of stars. Molly would usually head off to bed first, and then Tanner and Glen would have long talks, one-on-one.

The first night, Tanner caught Glen up on his travels and the sights he'd seen before describing his visits to the families of friends he'd lost. Glen sat quietly through that part—he'd known many of them as well—and finally admitted that he wouldn't have been able to do it.

"I'm not sure what I would have even said to them."

Tanner knew what he meant—it hadn't always been easy for Tanner, either, especially when suicide was involved—and the conversation eventually shifted to easier topics. He told Glen about his upcoming job in Cameroon and toward the end, he spoke about his last few months in Pensacola, including the surprising revelation his grandma had finally offered, which explained his upcoming trip to Asheboro.

"Wait," Glen said, once he seemed to fully process the information. "She just shared that information with you now?"

"At first, I thought she was confused, but when she wrote it down, I knew she was serious."

"How'd that make you feel?"