Out of the Dark

17 Stray Dogs

Evan dined a few blocks from Castle Heights at a restaurant specializing in “New American” cuisine, a designation he found simultaneously meaningless and redundant. Sitting at the patio’s edge, he ordered a whole branzino roasted in a parchment wrap with a side of steamed kale. Though the bar offerings were extensive, none of the vodkas rose to his palate, so he opted for Pellegrino, which he drank garnished with a wedge of lime.

It was a consummate Angeleno night — warm edging into cool, neither too dry nor too humid, a soothing breeze. Looking into his glass, he pictured Jonathan Bennett’s face swirling behind the bubbles and wondered what the president was doing at this very moment across the breadth of the continent. Readying battle plans of his own? Gathering intel on the other wayward Orphans so they could be put down like stray dogs?

Sipping from his glass, Evan registered the sting of betrayal as something physical, a knife between the ribs. He was reviled by the country he’d served, unwanted and deemed not worthy of living, hunted on the authority of orders issued at the highest level.

They had made him who he was and then found their creation to be unacceptable.

His pleasures now were simple. Using his skills to help those not merely in need but also worthy. And sipping sparkling water alfresco on a glorious California night.

He engaged in a quiet sitting meditation, timing his inhalation, doubling the count for his exhalation. And again.

The Fourth Commandment: Never make it personal.

This would be a mission like any other.

Except infinitely harder.

He checked the RoamZone, confirming that the display showed no missed calls, which brought a wave of relief.

He settled back in his chair, scanning the restaurant. Eating by himself gave him the freedom to study everything around him even more closely. One of the regulars, an older woman, sat alone in her usual booth. Stiff tweed suit, face done up, cell phone on the table. She drank a single glass of white wine with dinner every time. She always overtipped. The phone never rang.

She broke his heart ten different ways.

He glanced away so as not to be caught staring and noticed a homeless man stumble up the sidewalk with the aid of a crutch. Just beyond the patio, the man sat, slumped against a parking meter. He was missing a leg below the knee. His battered cardboard sign read HOMELESS VETEREN WITH PTSD IM NOT ASHAMED ANYMORE BUT NEED HELP.

His head was lowered, his good leg kicked wide, the cardboard sign propped against his belly. His clothes were filthy, his face covered with grime.

The Veterans Affairs Medical Center abutted these streets, and affluent Westwood received plenty of spillover from the facility.

The man rustled the sign in his lap. Passersby lived up to their designation, neither slowing nor looking up from their phones. When the veteran scratched his cheek, his finger carved a white streak through the grime.

The waiter circled by and topped off Evan’s sparkling water. He followed Evan’s gaze. “Would you like me to have him removed, sir?”

Evan said, “No.”

The server gave one of those ridiculous half bows inherent to waiters and barons and started to withdraw. Evan grasped his forearm. “I’d like another branzino, please.”

The waiter’s pupils jiggled a touch nervously. “Very well, sir.”

Fifteen minutes later the dishes arrived. The waiter hesitated.

Evan gestured at the place setting across from him. “The extra one goes there.”

The waiter stiffened, his posture verging on displeased. He dispensed the dishes as directed and retreated inside.

Evan stared across the sidewalk at the veteran, and, feeling the heat of his gaze, the man looked up. He rumbled to his feet, picked at his beard, his eyes on the steaming meal sitting before the empty chair.

“What’s that?” he said.

Evan said, “Yours.”

The man stood a moment longer, the cardboard sign crumpled between his loose fists. Then he hobbled onto the patio and sat opposite Evan.

He ate hungrily but not impolitely. The other diners either took no notice or competently pretended not to. Evan and the man dined in perfect silence, focused on their meals.

Sometime later they finished.

Evan held up his credit card, one of many in one of his many different names, and the waiter materialized to retrieve it.

As Evan signed the check, the man gulped down his water and wiped his mouth on the napkin. “Good fish,” he said.

Evan looked across the table until at last the man looked up.

“Thank you for your service,” Evan said.

The vet nodded. With some effort he rose, leaning heavily on his crutch.

As Evan headed out, the man resumed his position against the parking meter, holding up his unread sign as patrons streamed past.