No Return by Brett Battles

there’s a whole half a year that should be written down somewhere.”
    Anna looked through the books, just to double-check. “Maybe it’s in another box.”
    If he hadn’t seen the books, he never would have missed them. But now, especially since he knew they were filled with words written by his father, he felt he couldn’t just forget about them. And it only made sense, then, to have the whole set.
    He thought back, remembering those times he’d seen his father sitting at the table, writing in one of the planners.
    “The kitchen,” he said. “That’s where he could have kept it.”
    They located all the boxes marked Kitchen and started looking through them. It was Wes who found it in a box full of old notepads and shoestrings and ads for restaurants and the other things he knew his father had simply stuffed into the kitchen junk drawer.
    He opened the book and started thumbing through the pages, stopping when he reached the last weeks of his father’s life.
    There were notations about meetings at work and a reminder about someone named Charlie’s birthday. With only a slight hesitation, Wes paused before turning the page to the week that contained the day his father died. Oddly, there was nothing about going on a trip. In fact, on the day after his father was killed in the crash, he had several meetings scheduled.
    A one-day camping trip? Wes had never remembered his father going on one that short before.
    Then something else caught his attention. It was a single word written in the 8:30 p.m. slot on the day before the crash:
Pudge
    Wes stared at the name for a moment, unable to comprehend why it would be here.
    Pudge?
    It was a nickname Wes’s dad had come up with.
    The name his father had called Lars.

LARS LIVED ON RANDALL STREET, ON THE RIGHT side, near where the road dead-ended. His house was a modified ranch, longer front-to-back than side-to-side, with a lawn, lush and green, like most of the others in the neighborhood—their owners attempting to ignore the fact they lived in the middle of the desert.
    Wes and Anna pulled in to the driveway on his dad’s Triumph and parked next to an old Ford F-150 pickup. He wasn’t even off the bike when Lars ran outside, a bottle of beer in his hand.
    “Is that what I think it is?” He was grinning ear to ear.
    “You remember it?” Wes asked.
    “Hell yes, I do. We all wanted one just like it.” He circled the motorcycle. “Damn, it looks exactly like it did back then. You’ve kept it in great shape.”
    “Thanks.” Wes didn’t bother correcting him.
    Anna walked up beside him and slipped her hand into his.
    “You remember Anna,” Wes said. “You met her yesterday at the shoot.”
    Lars shook Anna’s hand. “You’re one of the few I do remember.”
    Wes’s eyebrow rose. “What exactly does that mean?”
    “It means keep her close or she may be riding in my truck by the end of the evening.”
    “Is that the 4.6 liter or 5.4?” Anna asked, nodding back at the truck.
    Both men looked surprised.
    “Oh, I like her,” Lars said. “You are definitely in trouble, my friend.”
    There was laughter all around as they headed across the lawn toward the front door.
    “This wasn’t your parents’ house, was it?” Wes asked.
    “You think I could afford this on a Navy salary, even in Ridgecrest?”
    “But I thought they lived on the other side of town.”
    “Moved here after you took off.”
    Wes realized he hadn’t asked his friend about his parents yet. “Are they …”
    “Very much alive. Believe it or not, living on a golf course in Phoenix. Retired to the desert from the desert. Would have expected nothing less from them. What about your mom?”
    “Still in San Diego.”
    “Glad to hear it,” Lars said. “Come on. Let me show you around.”
    He led them inside and gave them the dime tour. Living room, three bedrooms, two baths, dining room, and a nice, large kitchen. All of it neatly furnished in that Spartan way men living alone