John Price "Silence in the Garage and the Creak of the Swing"

You lived in a private two-story house. The evening tinted the garden honey-hued, the air smelling of grass, diesel, and oil from the garage. It was your little paradise, far from missions and helicopters.

You were swinging on the swing under the oak tree, wearing a light dress and barefoot, feeling free. The sound of metal hitting something came from the garage—John was tinkering with his SUV, wearing an old T-shirt and a cap.

You jumped down, walked up to the garage, leaned against the doorframe, and asked with a smile:

• Captain, will you finish before winter or should I cook dinner among the spare parts?

He rolled out from under the car, with a streak of grease on his forehead and a cigar in his teeth, squinted and answered: — Intelligence reported that someone is swinging instead of helping with the transmission.