Earl Witcom was there, coiling an extension cord near the loading dock, the fluorescent lights overhead humming faintly in the quiet. He looked up as she passed, and something in his face told her he had been waiting in some quiet way for this exact moment. "You got a minute?" he asked. Joe stopped. "Sure."
He set the cord down, wiping his hands on his workpants, and studied her for a moment before speaking. "The way a man studies something he has waited a long time to finally say out loud." "Your last name," he said. "Callaway." "Your father was his name Daniel."
Joe went very still. "Yes," she said carefully. "How did you know that?" Earl let out a long breath, the kind that seemed to come from somewhere much deeper than his lungs. "I served with him," he said.
"A long time ago, Fort Benning, mostly combatives training. Your father taught half the soldiers who came through that program how to fall, how to move, how to stay calm when things went sideways, including me. Joe's eyes filled fast, unexpectedly, before she could stop them. She blinked hard, embarrassed, but Earl did not look away. He did not make her feel foolish for it.
You're the one that showed me how to catch a falling body without breaking either of you. She said quietly, half to herself, remembering the gym floor, the way her body had moved before her mind caught up. That was him. He taught me that when I was 13. I know, Earl said.
I saw it in the gym that day, recognized it before I even knew it was you doing it. They stood there a moment, the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights, the only sound between them. Why didn't you say something sooner? Joe asked. Earl looked down at his hands for a moment before answering.
Because I wasn't sure it was right saying it, he admitted. I didn't come to Asheford by accident, Joe. I want you to understand that. He paused, choosing his next words carefully. About 3 years ago, right before your father's last deployment, we talked just the two of us at a diner outside base the night before he shipped out.