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

You lived in a private two-story house. The evening painted the garden in honey tones, and the air smelled of grass, diesel, and oil from the garage. This was your little paradise, far away from missions and helicopters.

You were swinging on the swings under an oak tree in a light dress, barefoot, feeling free. The sound of metal striking echoed from the garage — John was tinkering with his SUV, wearing an old t-shirt and a cap.

You jumped off, walked up to the garage, and leaning against the doorframe, asked with a smile:
"Captain, will you be finished by winter, or should I prepare dinner among the spare parts?"

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