Free Catching Tatum by Lucy H. Delaney

speakers. There was no class; we all gathered around TVs and computer monitors and watched in disbelief. America's pain made me forget my own. Theo, Brett, and I all went to the same high school and all did cross-country together to stay in shape for baseball, but practice was canceled. How could we run and have fun when people were jumping out of burning buildings, and terrorists were cheering victoriously? When school let out, instead of going to the field we met up at Theo's Jeep and drove straight home. Occasionally one of us would comment on something we heard or saw, but it was mostly a quiet ride except for the radio, which was only giving news. The base was a scurry of activity when we finally got home. Heightened security, patrols and searches like never before. Dad was gone. He'd been gone before on deployments or missions that he couldn't talk about. His absence wasn't the problem—the suddenness was. We always had notice that he was going; this time, though, there was nothing, except an attack on U.S. soil. We got home and he was gone.
    When he finally came home, more than a week later, he was different. Distant, tired, shut-down. I was on the couch watching news updates and trying to do homework by the light of a table lamp. He came in the door, shut it and just stood there. Mom saw him first and went to him. He took her into his arms. They held each other forever ... she held him. My dad, my strong, brave, Colonel Dad was broken and she would hold him together. I thought about them having each other. Then I thought about the women who jumped out of the buildings, who perished in the Pentagon or the field. Who did their husbands have to hold them together? During the embrace, the boys made it into the living room, too. The four of us, Theo, me, Brett and Trav, watched quietly, all of us thinking the same things: Where had he been? What had he seen? What was going to happen now? After he was finished with mom he hugged each of us in turn. Long hugs that said more than any words ever could. I never saw a tear, or heard a sob, but almost wished I did. He held it all in. He was never quite the same after that. I supposed correctly that he was working at the Pentagon, but he never wanted to talk about it. I don't know if he couldn't or wouldn't but he didn't for the longest time and we didn't push him. The images from the news were bad enough; I could only imagine what it was like to be there.
    He had two days, forty-eight hours, to rest and recover before he had to go back. He didn’t know when we would see him again. It was like that for weeks. Unlike that first week, though, he called and talked to us regularly.
    The attacks changed everything, not just for America, for us. We always had an emergency plan, but now Mom made it way more detailed. We put emergency kits in the cars and in the house. We got cell phones, too. Before then it was just Mom and Dad, and Theo, who had his own phone because he had a job and wanted one, but Mom and Dad decided they wanted the rest of us to have them, too ... for emergencies. Mom was way more paranoid about where we would be and when we would be there. And she left us notes about her daily activities. In case it happened again, we needed to know where to look for each other.
    We had lived on several bases—moves were part of our life—but I kind of assumed Andrews AFB would be home for the remainder of Dad's Air Force career. I was wrong. Something about the attacks, something he couldn't talk about, got him orders to move away ... far, far away.
    This transfer took us to McChord AFB in Washington State, all the way on the other side of the country, where it is gray and rains almost every day. Except for the quickness and urgency behind it, the move was like all the others that came before. We got the orders, Dad went first, right away, and we tied up loose ends before they packed us up and shipped us out shortly after. My mom was usually a cheery lady, except right after new