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Then I deleted it.

Typed instead, "Tell them we'll learn from this year and do better next time."

Sent it.

Another text appeared immediately. This one from Amber, on Bonnie's phone. "Second place girl used something called loops in her code. I looked it up. Can you teach me?"

"Tomorrow," I replied.

"Promise?"

I stared at the word. Promises were dangerous things. They implied staying. They implied commitment. They implied a future beyond just passing through.

"Promise," I typed.

The decision made itself, real. Or maybe Little Grandma was right. Maybe I'd made it the moment I'd gotten on that plane.

Outside, full dark had settled over Jasper Creek. Streetlamps created pools of yellow light. The courthouse clock showed the wrong time, just as I'd predicted. Through the diner windows, I could see Little Grandma back at her hostess stand, greeting a young couple with a baby.

I started walking back toward Jase's house. Five miles through quiet streets. Past Thatcher's, where my Barracuda sat in darkness, waiting for resurrection. Past the school where those kids had built robots and mechanical hands with dreams of first place.

Little Grandma's words settled into my bones with each step. Walking toward something instead of away from it. Twenty years I'd been walking away. Away from connections that could be severed by an IED. Away from roots that could be torn up by the next deployment. Away from promises I might not live to keep.

But here I was, walking through the darkness of a small Tennessee town, toward a house where kids called me Uncle and worried about robot competitions. Toward something instead of away.

Maybe she was right. Maybe the path had already found me.

My phone buzzed again. Amber, still on Bonnie's phone. "Also, my friend Emma says there's a better robot kit we could use next year. It has more pieces and can do more things."

The kid had been researching for the past hour.

Of course she had.

"We'll look at different kits. Test them out. See which one works best for what we want to build."

"That sounds very Army."

"That's because it is."

"Cool."

Three dots appeared, showing she was typing. They disappeared. Appeared again. Then, "I'm glad you're here, Uncle Code."

Something shifted in my chest. Something that had been locked down for twenty years of mission focus and operational security.

"Me too, kid."

And for the first time in three months—maybe longer—I meant it.