"Jake loved to hunt," I say. "We'd go out with our dad. I was always the better shot. But Jake loved being outdoors."
"Is that why he joined the army?"
"The Navy," I correct. "Jake and I were in the Navy, same as our dad."
Sam takes a sideways step, his gaze moving to the next lot of photos. There's me in my Navy uniform at graduation and then Jake in an identical photo a few years later.
"I joined the Navy, and Jake followed me in. We trained hard and were both selected to their special operations unit. Your father was an elite warrior called a Navy SEAL. He was highly trained, and he was the best of the best."
Sam turns to me, and there's a spark of interest in his eyes.
"He was brave and smart and strong and the toughest mother..." I catch myself before the swear word falls out. "The toughest guy I know. Your dad died a hero. I'm sorry you didn't get to meet him. We don't know why your mother never told him about you. But if she had, I guarantee your dad would have done everything he could to have you in his life."
And maybe he wouldn't have been so stupid as to walk into a hut which he knew had explosives, I add silently. If Jake had known he had a son to come home to, he might not have been so reckless or so brave, whichever way the Navy want to spin it.
I crouch down so I'm eye level with Sam. "He was a good man, Sam, and if I can raise you to be half the man he was, I'll be doing him justice."
My voice chokes as I say it, and I've never missed Jake as much as I do right now. He should be here to raise his son. He should be here to teach his son how to fish and hunt and share with him all the things he loved.
Sam reaches out his small hand to me, and his fingers rest on my shoulder.
"Are you my dad now?" His voice is a mournful squeak, and his expression is both hopeful and uncertain. My heart aches for the boy.
"Yes." My voice chokes and tears threaten my eyes. "I'd very much like to be your dad."
He smiles then, and the grin, so much likes Jake's, knocks the wind out of me. He slides his tiny arms around my neck and rests his head on my shoulder.
I envelope him in my arms, marveling at how small his body is and how much heat he gives off.
As I pull him close, I make a silent vow to love and protect this boy as if he were my own. I want to make it official. I'll speak to Alana about what I need to do to adopt. Because there is nothing else I want more in life than to be a good dad to Sam.
20
ALANA
The buzz of my phone jerks me into wakefulness. I reach my hand out to the side of the bed to feel around for my vibrating phone and grab it with my eyes half closed.
It's not unusual to be woken in the night with an emergency foster care call, and I assume that's what this is.
"Hello?" My voice is thick from sleep. But I jerk wide awake when I hear Amos on the end of the call.
"Sam's sick," he blurts out.
I flick on the light and sit upright, the last vestiges of sleep falling off me.
"What's happened?"
"He's burning up. I don't know what to do." The panic in Amos's voice is palpable.
It's been five weeks since Sam came to live with Amos, and he's settled into his role of caregiver. He only messages me a few times every day now, but I look forward to his texts. He's becomesurer of himself as the weeks have passed, but I've never heard him in a panic like this before.
"What are his symptoms? Is he throwing up? Has he got a rash?"
I run through all the childhood sicknesses in my mind, the ones we have to look out for.
"A rash..." His voice shoots up another octave. "I didn't check for a rash."
"Take some deep breaths, Amos. You're not going to help Sam if you're in a panic. I'm sure he's okay. Kids get sick all the time."
