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past five and a half years. It was a one-story brick home with blue wood paneling and a garage.
    Their freshly cut lawn had a walkway and concrete steps that led to a front porch consumed with potted plants. His wife's red four-door Kia Sportage was in the driveway, a welcome sight. He pulled into the driveway, next to her car, and turned off the engine to be alone with his thoughts for one more minute.
    When Craig walked in, Rachael was in the kitchen, heating up some lasagna in the oven. Nick was nowhere in sight. Craig passed the living room. The television was on, and the evening news narrative had shifted back to terrorism.
    Images of the black flag of ISIS followed by militants riding down the streets of Iraq waving guns in the air consumed the screen. Next came a picture of hooded, uniformed men standing behind a line of prisoners on their knees in orange jumpsuits with rifles to their heads.
    “The Islamic State or Islamic State Iraq and the Levant, otherwise known as ISIS or ISIL, has spread across the Middle East at an alarming rate against most analysts' predictions. The president today concluded that the Islamic State has made troubling gains in the region, but that the long-term strategy to defeat the militant group is in fact working.”
    “Hello, dear,” Craig said, stepping into the kitchen.
    Rachael turned around from the refrigerator, startled. “It’s about time you got home.”
    She was wearing black slacks and a blue cardigan jacket. Her long black hair spilled down over her shoulders. Her tired gray eyes looked back at him. “Well, don't just stand there, give me a hug,” she said.
    Craig dropped his briefcase onto a stool by the kitchen counter and strode quickly across the tile to embrace her.
    “Where have you been all day?” she said, hugging him back.
    “I’m sorry. I just needed to clear my head about some things.”
    They pulled away, holding each other’s arms. “Well, you’re just in time for some lasagna,” she said.
    “Smells good.”
    Rachael walked over to the counter, where a pile of cut carrots rested on a cutting board. “Now go say hi to Nick while I finish this. He’s barely seen you the past couple of days.”
    Craig took off his suit coat and gave her a salute. He then turned and walked past the dining room and into the hallway where Nick's door was closed. Craig knocked.
    “Yeah. It’s open!” Nick called out from inside.
    “How ya doing, buddy?” Craig asked, opening the door.
    “Hey, Dad,” Nick said, playing his Xbox.
    “Dinner’s almost ready, so go get washed up,” Craig said.
    Nick nodded with his eyes locked on the screen. Craig looked around at the comic book posters on the wall and the magazines and dirty laundry on the floor. It was Nick’s room all right, and for Craig, it felt good to be back home.
    ***
    By dinner time, the family was seated around their circular dining room table with a tin of lasagna in the middle, a bowl of carrots, and basket of toasted garlic bread to the side. The night air was soft, drifting in from an open window. Outside, the only sounds were of crickets from the lake nearby.
    “And how was school for everyone?” Craig asked, from the head of the table.
    “It's summer, Dad,” Nick said. “We don't have school.”
    “That's right. Sorry. Well, your mom still has to be there, I see.”
    “Summer school,” Rachael said, taking a bite of lasagna.
    “Are you excited about starting the eighth grade?” Craig asked.
    “I guess so,” Nick said with a shrug.
    “You haven’t told us much about Minneapolis assignment. How’d it go?” Rachael asked.
    Craig suddenly realized he hadn’t told her much of anything yet. Nothing about the suicide bomber, the van explosion, and the sleeper cell.
    “It went fine.”
    Craig stopped there. At the sudden silence, he clasped his hands together with enthusiasm. “Hey, let’s all take a walk after dinner!”
    “Sure, honey,” Rachael said.
    Nick looked up, intrigued. “A