The first thing Staff Sergeant Isaiah Brooks noticed was that someone had replaced the kitchen curtains.
It was a ridiculous detail to notice after four years away.
Not the new SUV in the driveway.
Not the unfamiliar pair of men's work boots beside the back door.
Not the little wooden planter boxes that hadn't existed when he left.
The curtains.
They used to be yellow.
Lena had bought them at a discount store during their first year of marriage, and Isaiah had teased her because tiny white lemons were printed across the fabric.
Now they were blue.
Dark blue.
Plain.
Isaiah stood outside the kitchen window with his duffel bag hanging from one shoulder and stared through the glass.
For nearly four years, he had survived by remembering this house exactly as it had been.
The kitchen table.
The refrigerator covered in magnets.
The chipped ceramic bowl where Lena dropped her keys.
The small coffee machine Isaiah had bought her on their fifth anniversary.
He had replayed those details in darkness.
During interrogations.
During fevers.
During nights when he had been certain he would not see sunrise.
Home had been the one place no one could take from him.
Then he looked through his kitchen window.
His wife was standing in another man's arms.
Isaiah stopped breathing.
The man was white.
Maybe forty.
Tall.
Broad shouldered.
Dark blond hair beginning to gray at the temples.
He wore jeans and a dark green sweater with the sleeves pushed above his wrists.
Lena's cheek rested against his chest.
His arms were wrapped around her.
One hand moved slowly over her back.
Comforting her.
Holding her.
Isaiah stared.
He did not move.
He could hear his own pulse.
There had been moments overseas when he had watched danger approach in slow motion.
A vehicle where no vehicle should have been.
A shadow shifting behind a window.
A hand moving beneath a coat.
His body had learned to become absolutely still before violence.
That same instinct returned now.
Only there was no rifle in his hands.
No armor.
No squad behind him.
There was only his wife.
And a stranger touching her.
Lena said something Isaiah could not hear.
The man bent his head toward her.
Then Lena wrapped both arms tighter around his waist.
Isaiah's duffel bag slipped from his shoulder.
It hit the porch with a heavy thud.
Inside the kitchen, both of them turned.
Lena looked through the window.
Her face went white.
For several seconds, she did not move.
The stranger followed her stare.
Isaiah saw confusion cross the man's face.
Then recognition.
Recognition.
That was worse.
The man knew who Isaiah was.
Lena's hand flew to her mouth.
Isaiah stepped backward.
The kitchen door opened so quickly it struck the wall.
"Isaiah?"
He had dreamed of hearing her voice say his name.
Thousands of times.
He had imagined laughter.