November

When he was a little boy, his grandmother had woken him early in the morning, every Sunday, to brush his hair, light a few candles, and say early morning prayers before they went together to chapel. She had woken him this way every week through his life, taken him every Sunday until the last Sunday, when two broad, harsh men from the Institute of Carrier Studies hopped out of a jeep and called his name off of a clipboard. The Institute called ahead in those days; she had known they were coming, had even cooked them a meal. She packed three hot dinners and held on to Ortega for as long as they would let her, and when she'd finally let him go, she had made him promise that, while he was away from her, he would not miss a single Sunday; he would get up every week and do the same until they were back together again.

Ortega had, and when her letters and an occasional allowed phone call to hear the sound of her voice was not enough, he would go and sit by himself in an empty chapel, imagining that he was a little boy back home again, feeling the kiss of her lips, or perhaps the soft scent of jasmine and butterflower that was always in her hair. They did not sit together in those days during church, but they would soon; they would, now that he, too, had become a mother. Ortega had thought about this every week, every day he'd passed through the tall wooden doors, and he hadn't missed a Sunday, never, not until three weeks ago, when a man named James had gotten out of a jeep and called his name.

Today was another day he would miss.

Tega woke up sick and said his Hail Marys hunched over the toilet of the blue-and-white bathroom in the upstairs hall. Andy came in, looked sympathetic, and brought him ice water and a slice of bread. When he was done, Andy took him to bed, sat and brushed back his hair while he cried and asked hysterically for his mama.

~:~

Sunday was also the last day that Havar spent alone. He got up in time for brunch in the hall, waited to be sure the bleeding had stopped (it had), dressed and went down to eat. He left his door unlocked, as was his custom - short jaunts and tight security in the barracks didn't tend to require great vigilance. Paranoia was fresh, but habit was strong; he checked the room in his head; no evidence, nothing to find or know or see. Unlikely anyone would look in the first place. His room was his private space; its sanctity would be respected. This trust in his fellow soldier would be his second mistake.

He found two friends of his sitting alone, eating by the window. They grinned and welcomed him to sit, just not next to either of them since they didn't want whatever had him down like that yesterday. Havar laughed, rolled his eyes and pulled up a chair.
He'd been feeling a little woozy since Saturday, and so he piled his plate with glucose - anything sweet, he figured, plus extra meat, and he'd be right as rain in no time. He got out of line, full plate, and sat down to devour it with his group of (now three) friends. He was so focused on the conversation, which had taken an intriguing turn into which newbie might be the purveyor of the excellent hash a fourth friend of their had been lately equipped with, he hadn't spared a glance from his table till the meal was almost over. Across the room, Anton Yavisk was watching him. Havar felt a chill. He looked away immediately. The conversation, having drifted, was glancing on the ever-discussable topic of fucking. Havar felt a spike of anxiety, smothered it with a long drink of orange juice. One of his friends was wrapping up a monologue and Havar was suddenly, acutely, aware of what he'd been saying.
"So if one of them were right in front of me, and I had no other chance," he was laughing, wiping his mouth with a napkin, "Hell yeah, I'd just take it."
He glanced at Havar, just by chance, but it felt like an arrow through to his very soul; Havar felt sick; the orange juice tasted sour. He choked on it, spit it back into the glass. Brian, sitting to the left, looked over at him.
"You OK?"
Havar nodded, coughed to cover the flush darkening his cheeks.
"Swallowed wrong. I'm fine."
Brian nodded, went back to listening to what the other two were saying. Havar got up to return his tray, not looking to see if Yavisk was still watching him.
This would be his third mistake.