Navajo Tacos

Disclaimers: Tim & Bill aren't mine, alas.

Classification: Slash (Bayliss/Boisy), crossover (Homicide/Hard Core Logo)

Spoilers: Post movie, post movie. Part 5 of Moving On, after Welcome to the New Days

Beta thanks to Gemini & Beth, who keep me on the straight and narrow (yeah, right!).

Rating: NC17

Summary: "'I'm kind of sick of Vegas, aren't you? Don't you want to breathe some mountain air? Eat some Navajo fucking tacos?'"

Feedback me! bodge38@earthlink.net

Navajo Tacos

by shell

copyright 2001

We decide to wait to tell the kids until we get home, so when we call that night we just tell them we're having a good time, that we miss them, and find out about the minutiae of their days, first Sarah and Ruth, then Billie up in Regina. It's difficult not to say anything, though—every few minutes I catch a glimpse of silver, on my hand or his, and it's all I can do not to shout it from the fucking rooftops. I'm distracted, and my kids (still makes me warm inside to say that) call me on it, accuse me of not paying attention, but they're laughing when they do it, so I know it's all right. It's not as if they don't know me and my tendency to go off into the ether.

We don't leave the hotel for a couple glorious days, don't even leave the room except for trips down to the pool. Swimming's supposed to be good physical therapy, and Bill says I need to spend some time in the sun, but I think it's mainly so he can get me to put sunscreen on him. Hey, I can get behind that, no problem. Besides, he has to put sunscreen on me, too, which is just fine by me, for the most part. I'm uncomfortable being in public in swim trunks, exposing the leg and all my other scars for all to see—I don't want to frighten anybody.

Bill never seems to notice any of it—his hands cover my skin with the same gentle strokes, no matter where they are, no matter that I don't think scars can get sunburned.

At any rate, he seems to enjoy putting it on, and I certainly enjoy returning the favor. Then we get to wash it off together in the shower. The swimming is good for me—I'm getting stronger every day. And in the water, sometimes, I can forget for a little while just how fucked up my leg really is. In the water, it doesn't seem to matter.

Bill looks damned good with a tan, lounging in his trunks, sunglasses on, every inch the Rock Star. My rock star. He doesn't get in the water much, just to cool off now and then, but when he does, those baggy trunks clinging to his dripping body, if I'm not already in the water, I usually get in quickly, before I let everyone poolside know just what that man does to me.

One morning, our third one there, over breakfast, Bill asks me about Flagstaff, whether I liked it.

"I didn't really spend much time there. Just met Eisen, set up the move, that sort of thing. I noticed it was really beautiful there, but I was so focused on going undercover that I don't remember much else."

"Let's go."

"To Flagstaff?"

"Yeah. I'm kind of sick of Vegas, aren't you? Don't you want to breathe some mountain air? Eat some Navajo fucking tacos?"

"Sure. Let's go breathe some mountain air," I say, laughing. "Do you even know what's in Navajo tacos?" I can't say no to him when he's grinning at me like that, practically quivering with energy and excitement. So we rent a jeep and head east on I-40, Bill singing "Route 66" under his breath, playing word games with me.

It only takes a few hours to get there. And Flagstaff really is beautiful, even more than I remembered. The mountains, the San Francisco Peaks, are spectacular. There are more trees than I've seen anywhere in the southwest, and not just pine trees, but maples and aspens as well. More than that, it's actually a pretty cool town, with a lot going on, and a college-town, progressive vibe. We spend a day driving around Wupatki and Sunset Crater, getting out now and then for a short walk, then browsing on Beaver Street, where Bill buys a cowboy hat that looks strangely like it belongs on his head.

That night, over dinner (he has a Navajo taco, which turns out to be taco meat on Navajo sweetbread), he tells me he wants to move here.

"To Flagstaff?" I ask, aware I'm repeating myself, but I can't think of anything else to say.

"Look, Tim, we both know that Beverly Hills is a fucking stupid place to live, especially with kids. Not if we want them to have a chance at a normal life, with normal friends, instead of fucking 90210 Hollywood bullshit. It doesn't have to be Flagstaff, not if you want to go somewhere else, but I really like it here. The house is too fucking small, but it would sell for a lot, and we could get something great, with a lot of land, you know? I don't know for sure, but I bet there's a zendo in Sedona, and that's only 45 minutes away; there might even be one here. And Gwen's pretty much running the show for the Fund—you could telecommute, and come out to LA with me for board meetings."

His enthusiasm is just as infectious as it was that morning, and I'm powerless to say no when he's grinning at me like that. So the next day, we start looking for a house. We meet with a realtor over breakfast in a great diner, one where Bill says he took Gordon, Dan, Susanna, Elizabeth, and Cassie after he got them out. We don't say anything to the girls yet, but we're both excited.

We don't find any houses that suit that day, or the next. By the third day, I'm feeling discouraged—real estate is in short supply in northern Arizona. Everything's part of a National Forest or a reservation. But then the realtor asks us if we're willing to build, and exactly how much land were we interested in, anyway? And we seem like environmentally minded folks, and of a philanthropic bent. She's heard about the Adena Watson Fund, thinks it's wonderful what we did for those kids from Utah.

It turns out that our asswipe Republican president has decided to cut back the borders of the Kaibab and Coconino National Forests, allow some private development. It's a pilot project at this point—only a thousand acres or so. Earth Island Institute is trying to get money together to buy the parcel outright, put an easement on it, make a wildlife sanctuary, but funding is pretty tight with the current recession. She's heard they're looking for an investor, one who might be willing to buy the whole parcel and keep it basically pristine. If they can find someone like that, who might just build, say, one ecologically sound house, instead of a whole development, well, that would be great.

The date for the sale hasn't been set yet, but she can show us the land, if we're interested. And we could work out a deal with Earth Island—her cousin works for them. I look over at Bill, expecting him to express regret, but his eyes are bright, and he's nodding, tells her yes, we're interested.

Now I've always been someone who appreciates open space. I look forward to the day when my leg's strong enough for fly-fishing again, if it ever is. But I've never thought of Bill as anything other than a city boy, despite his enthusiasm for the Grand Canyon trip, despite how much fun we had at Wupatki and Sunset Crater and the other national parks we've taken the girls to. He told me once he'd been through incredible country in western Canada without really paying much attention, but he'd been drunk most of the time anyway.

He admits he's turning into Nature Boy. He's wearing a Ramones t-shirt with his standard too-large pants, and biker boots with his cowboy hat, but the look works for him. He keeps talking about how good the air smells, insisting it's not just because he's not smoking.

The land is a little north of Flag, heading up in elevation but still a distance from the Snow Bowl. We get off 180 onto an unpaved Forest Service road and drive for a couple miles. The creeks are still full from the spring melt, and I'm wondering if there are any trout. We've got the windows open, and Bill's grinning non-stop, so of course I am, too. We pull over next to the creek, which the realtor tells us is actually the Schultz River, and we walk around. There's a clearing right near the river, with an absolutely amazing view of Humphries Peak.

"Can you imagine waking up to that every morning?" he asks, leaning into me.

"It's pretty incredible, Bill, but are you serious about this? Have you ever lived anywhere but the city? And what about rehearsals, recording, touring—this is a little off the beaten track, you know."

"We'll build a studio. It's only a four hour drive to Vegas. Only two hours to Phoenix. Easy to catch a flight to LA."

"This place must get a lot of snow in the winter. And no limos. You ready to take the girls to school in a jeep?"

"Won't need to—you'll be driving by then." He's got the cocky Billy Tallent grin trained on me, full bore, and as usual I can't help but smile back at him.

"We'd certainly have a lot of privacy," I say. "Jesus, Bill, how much will this cost?"

"I don't know. I guess it depends on what we can work out with Earth Island, and with the government. Do retired secret agent heroes get any special discounts? Can you give Senator Lieberman a call again?"

In the end, we agree to meet with EII, and I get the name of someone at the Parks Service from Bartlett, see what I can find out. In a month, if it all works out, we'll be in possession of 1000 acres in northern Arizona, working on plans for the house. And planning a wedding.

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God has had his eye on me. I couldn't believe it when I saw Timothy with his lover, walking casually down Beaver Street, right in front of me. Timothy moves slower than he used to, thanks to my Holy Father, but he and that heathen musician are laughing and smiling. Boisy looks right at me, but of course he wouldn't recognize me, and Timothy has eyes only for him.

I follow along behind them, trying to catch their conversation. Yes, God is with me indeed—Timothy and his lover are moving to Flagstaff. Then I hear another word, a word I never thought to hear from Timothy's lips again. This summer, he and Boisy plan the ultimate perversion—they will hold a marriage ceremony. A wedding, making a mockery again of the covenants he pledged to Sarah, to Ruth. And to me.

I will not permit this. Faith in God and my Holy Father has earned me the right. There will be no escape this time. My Father has decreed that they should die, and I will carry out his will. I will be worthy of Him.

God is with me.

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We're walking down Beaver Street again, our last evening before we head back to California in the morning. The sun's still up, the sky is clear, and there are a lot of people doing just what we're doing—strolling up and down, maybe doing some shopping, figuring out where they want to eat dinner. You can hear the trains coming through every now and then, and live music from some of the bars.

And I'm walking down Beaver Street with Tim, wearing his ring on my finger, on my right hand for now, and he's wearing his on his right hand—I can see it catch the sun every now and then. I'm completely fucking overwhelmed by what's happened in the past week, the incredible joy I feel, knowing we're moving to this great town, and we're getting married. I turn to look and see he's looking right back at me, and it seems perfectly natural to take his hand in mine as we walk.

"When do you think we should hold the ceremony?" he asks, smiling at me.

"If we could have it at the new house, that would be great. I don't know how fast they'll be able to build it—maybe by the end of the summer?"

"What are we going to do about the Grand Canyon trip? I know we were planning on just the three of us, and I think it's probably impossible to get two more tickets. It might be nice as sort of a honeymoon, just the two of us, but I don't want Billie to feel badly, either."

"You know, she's been feeling a little left out, I think. Tell you what. What if we send all three girls on the trip, instead of us and Billie, and then get married after they get back? That way they'd have some girl time together, and we wouldn't have to make a choice about whether or not to take one of them with us. Sarah's responsible enough to keep the other two in line."

"You won't be too disappointed? I know how much you were looking forward to that trip."

"We're moving here. It's not like there won't be other opportunities—maybe we'll go next year, or the year after. Fuck, Tim, would we be able to enjoy our honeymoon in a tent, with campers around, and no running water? No shower?"

"You have a point, Mr. Boisy."

"No shit, Detective."

"Where do you want to go? You've seen Baltimore, but I've never been to Vancouver. Shit, I've never even been to Canada."

"We'll have to remedy that—Vancouver, or Toronto, or Quebec City maybe."

"That sounds great. How do you think Billie's going to handle all of this?"

"I'm not sure. She's had me all to herself for the last five years. Of course, for the first six years of her life she didn't have a fucking clue I existed. I know she loves her mom and Evan, and she's always been pretty content with the visitation schedule we worked out, and in general she's a pretty level-headed kid—I guess we'll just have to see."

"How will Mary react?"

"Fuck if I know. She's never been thrilled about my sexual preferences, but I think she accepts them. Accepts you. Fuck, she'd have to be blind not to see that you're a positive influence."

I look around and see we've attracted some attention—a few kids, and some adults, are staring, some more obtrusively than others. I give the bunch of them a huge fucking smile and pull Tim closer, put my arm around his waist. He looks down at me and smiles fondly.

"You sure that's a good idea?" he asks.

"Don't give a shit either way. If a bunch of homophobes wants to be offended by two men walking down the street arm in arm, it's no fucking skin off my nose. We're moving here. We're getting married. They'll just have to get used to it."

He laughs and puts his arm around my shoulders.

"You know, it's our last night here," he whispers into my ear. "Tomorrow night we'll be at home, with the kids, and my mom will be there, too. Tonight, it's just us."

"Let's head back to the hotel, order some room service, what do you say? And if you don't want to cause a scene, I'd suggest you move a little quicker, wuss."

He may need that cane, but he has some fucking long legs, and when he's properly motivated, he can still move kind of fast, kind of hopping, especially with my help. And I know how to motivate him. We're back in the room in short order. Dinner can wait.

I start to strip the minute we get the door closed, and so does he. I take my new hat off so I can pull off my shirt, but Tim grabs it and puts it back on my head.

"Like my hat, do you?"

"Tell me the truth—you've worn a cowboy hat before, haven't you?"

"The west is the best, Timmy. At least I don't wear a buckskin jacket with fringe, or a genuine cowhide vest, complete with hair, like Johnny always does."

"It looks great on you—very sexy. It would look stupid on me, though."

The only response I could possibly make to that is to take the hat off and put it on his head. He's down to his jeans, the top button undone, feet bare, a little stubble visible, sitting on the bed with his bum leg stretched out. The hat's no stupid ten gallon tourist bauble—it's light brown, with a brim only a little larger than the one Joe used to have. I take a step back, then move forward to tip the brim down just a little over his forehead before moving back again. Yeah, I was right. It looks perfect. He looks up at me kind of shyly from under the brim, and jesus what a sight that is.

"Stupid, right?" he asks.

"No, jesus, Tim. Definitely not stupid. Fucking hot—take a look in the mirror if you don't believe me." I help him up and over to the mirror, enjoying the warmth of his bare arm on my shoulders, and enjoying the sight of the two of us in the mirror even more. We've both got tans. Tim's arms, shoulders, and chest are rock solid and very nicely defined, and my upper body is in better shape than it's been in years, although my arms are still spindly compared his. You can see Mighty's ears peaking over my waistband, and Tim reaches down, unbuttons the top couple buttons, and runs his finger down and around the tattoo. I close my eyes at the sensation, then open them again to see Tim's looking back at mine through the mirror.

"We make one hell of a sexy couple, don't we?" he asks with a smile. There's a little catch to his voice that lets me know he's just as turned on as I am. Well, that and what I can see outlined in his jeans.

His finger's been joined by a couple more, and I'm liking what they're doing. So I grab onto his belt loops and pull him closer, working his fly as we kiss. It doesn't take long before I've got his jeans pulled down to his thighs. He's not wearing any boxers today, which is a very nice surprise—usually I'm the only one to go commando. I know how much he likes it, so I guess he figured I'd like it, too. He's right.

He's trying to get me stripped, but I'm not letting him. I've got a plan, and if he does much more with those long fingers of his, I'm not going to last long enough. So I break off kissing him and point my finger at him, shaking my head solemnly, grabbing his hands and pushing them behind him. Then I back away for a minute, intending to grab a pillow from the bed. I have to stop and stare.

He's leaning back against the dresser, breathing hard, staring at me hungrily. The hat's still on, although it's angled back now, exposing more of his beautiful, flushed face, the long line of his throat. He's got his hands clenched behind him on the rim of the dresser, and I can see his back and ass in the mirror, even the beads of sweat on those broad fucking shoulders. His dick is bobbing a little with his breathing, swollen and red and leaking a little, and I can feel mine twitch in response.

"You just gonna stand there, or are you going to get back here where you fucking belong?" he asks gruffly.

"Just admiring the view," I say with a groan. "Jesus, you are so fucking beautiful."

I take a breath, grab the pillow, and drop it at his feet. He grabs my arms and pulls me in for one hell of a hot kiss, then lets me go so I can kneel in front of him. I take him in my hand first, stroking gently, looking up as he leans his head back and moans. Then I tease him a little with the tip of my tongue. He has to support himself against the dresser with one hand, but he brings the left one over to stroke my cheek. I turn and pull one long finger into my mouth, and he moans again.

"Fuck, Bill," he groans, and that's all I need to hear. Truth is, I love blowing him. Joe used to demand it, fucking order me to do it, holding my head in a tight grip as he fucked my mouth and throat, barely giving me a chance to breathe. He got off on it, no question, and I got off too, on the fact that I was the one he wanted, on the few moments after he came, when he was almost tender, bringing me off with his hands and going to sleep with his arm around me possessively.

But Tim—he loves it, no question, but he never demands it, never even asks for it. I've told him a fair amount about Joe, and he's a little sensitive about it, wants to avoid anything that might remind me of the nastier aspects of those years, that twisted love. So when I take him in my mouth, he lets me take over, as much as he can. He'll run his fingers through my hair, and every once in awhile he'll thrust a little, when he can't help himself, but in general he just relaxes and lets me do my thing. And I know just how he likes it, can read what he wants from the noises he makes, the way his hand is clenched behind him, the feel of him thickening and tightening when he's close, the taste of his sweat, the taste of him coming.

So I feel those happy putz feelings once again as I take him in, first just the tip, sucking gently, running my tongue around the edge, getting a good taste before I let him in all the way. I didn't have any choice about that with Joe, either—he didn't give a fuck that I was choking and gagging, and it took awhile before I didn't panic when I felt him thrusting up into my throat. But thanks to all that, I can do this for Tim, knowing he's given me complete control, and I'll never have to worry about choking, or not being able to breathe.

He usually doesn't last long when we do this, and this time is no exception. I can feel him getting close, so I hum a little, press my knuckle up behind his balls, and feel him start to pulse. He shouts as he comes hard, and his hand tightens a little in my hair, then loosens immediately with an apologetic stroke to my temple.

When I look up again, he's still got the hat on. He pulls me up for another kiss, then pushes me back towards the bed. I grab the hat and put it back on my head, grinning at him, pulling my jeans off. Then I back up the rest of the way and sit on the bed, spreading my legs apart and giving him my best come hither look. He kicks the pillow over, hitches his way to the bed, grabbing at my outstretched hand, then drops to his knees in front of me.

Now, Tim hasn't had as much practice at this as I have, but he more than makes up for it in enthusiasm. Doesn't hurt that he's got a fucking huge mouth, either. Not to mention a very talented tongue. My original thought was fucking his ass, not his mouth, but I have no complaints, none whatsoever. The sight of him down there, the back of his neck, his broad shoulders, combined with the feel of that mouth around me, his hair tickling the insides of my thighs, and I don't last any longer than he did. Which is probably good, because even with a pillow, I don't like what kneeling on the floor does to his fucked up right leg. Not that anything like that occurs to me until after I've come hard into his mouth.

Once there's blood flowing to my brain again, though, I help him up and onto the bed. We stay there for awhile, just fucking cuddling, if you can believe it, and then we order some room service and cuddle some more while we call the kids and wait for the food. All in all, it's been pretty much a perfect fucking day.

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On the plane ride back, we're talking over ideas for the new house. I mention that I've never owned a piece of property—always rented, never even lived in a house except when I was a kid, and in Church Canyon, and of course now.

"You're wrong," Bill tells me. "You do own a piece of property."

"No, I didn't own anything in Church Canyon—that was just part of my cover, you know that."

"That's not what I meant, freak. I put your name on the deed for the Beverly Hills house a couple months ago. We own it jointly."

"What?"

"Don't look so shocked, Timothy. Beyond the obvious reasons, it's actually a tax break for me—for us—because your salary and your pension and your investments combined still put you in a lower fucking tax bracket than I'm in. You should pay more fucking attention to the stuff Alicia and Ron have you sign, you know."

"The obvious reasons?"

He turns to look me in the eye. "Things happen. I did it after Montgomery. Changed my will, too—did that in December."

Comprehension dawns.

It's strange, maybe, but we've never really talked about money. My hospital bills, physical therapy, all that was covered by insurance and disability—Bartlett told me not to worry about it, and I didn't. But my paychecks were automatically deposited in my account in Baltimore the whole time I was undercover, my pension checks from Baltimore CID, too, and now my pension checks from the bureau and my salary from the Fund are going to the same place, and I've just been ignoring that aspect of my life, coasting along like some sort of kept man. Didn't even invest the money from Meldrick buying my share of the bar.

It's more than a little embarrassing to realize Bill's thought all this through and made reasonable decisions while I've been content with complete ignorance. I know much more about the financial status of the Adena Watson Memorial Fund than I do about my own finances, much less Bill's. And I need to change my will, too.

"What else have I signed?" I ask weakly.

"Well, I had Ron take a look at your investments, if you could call one IRA and a mutual fund investments—do you have any idea how much money you had wasting away in simple savings? You do remember that you signed a power of attorney when you were in the hospital, don't you?"

"Uh, now that you mention it—" It was probably the second or third day in Phoenix, and I was in pretty bad shape, still asleep more than I was awake. I remember Bill asking me to sign some stuff so that he could take care of whatever needed taking care of. I signed it, then promptly forgot about it.

"And did you think about the fact that tax day came and went? Jesus, Tim, I was wondering if you were ever going to get a fucking clue." At my shocked face, he says reassuringly, "Don't worry, Ron filed for both of us. And invested your savings in a couple different green mutual funds. You made some substantial donations, too, since I figured you could afford them now, and they gave you a little tax break. You're making more money than you have in the past, between two pensions and your salary from the Fund. I hope the Zen Peacemakers Order, the Green Party, and Greenpeace meet with your approval. Really, Tim, I thought you had read the stuff you were signing, but I guess I overestimated you."

"And I totally underestimated you. I don't know what to say—thank you."

"Look, I may be stupid where fifteen year olds and tattoos are concerned, Tim, but I wouldn't have made it this far if I didn't pay attention to business. Believe me, living in a fucking van with a cokehead either kills you or cures you where money's concerned. Unlike you, I spent half my life without a regular paycheck. Fuck, I spent half my life with jack and shit, and once I started actually making money, I made sure I'd be okay long-term, despite stupid decisions like buying a house in fucking Beverly Hills. I made sure Billie'd be okay, and now I'm making sure you and Ruthie and Sarah will be, too."

"Thank you," I say again. "Jesus, Bill—"

"You and me, til we're 104, remember?"

"I remember."

He looks at me again, searchingly.

"Does it bother you?"

"Does what bother me?"

"The money, the fact that I sort of took over."

"The fact that I'm a kept man?" I say, hiding a smile.

"Tim, you are not a fucking kept man—"

"I know that, putz. And maybe it should bother me, but it doesn't. You're obviously one hell of a business man along with a hell of a musician, and why shouldn't I take advantage of that? I'm pretty stupid where money's concerned sometimes; you're not. You're going to have to speak up more in board meetings."

"You have your own assignment, you know."

"What's that, Money Bags?"

"That's not buddies. Security. As long as you keep us safe, I'll keep us in grilled cheese and cable tv."

"Deal. On one condition."

"What's that?"

"I think you know."

"Unlimited sexual favors?"

"And I thought I was the detective."

"It'll be a hardship, but I think I can manage, as long as I get some favors in return."

"Of course. I am your kept man, after all."

"I'm calling for a limo to pick us up."

"Now there's an idea with some merit. Unlike you, I've never done it in a limo."

"What better way to spend the hours in fucking traffic than fucking in traffic? Now shut up for a minute—I have to call Mark."

I watch him as he uses the skyphone, long elegant fingers dialing the number, cowboy hat perched on top of his spiked hair. He schmoozes with Mark for a few minutes, getting the latest word on how many millions of copies Adena's Song has sold, and then arranges for a limo—"a nice one, Mark, not some fucking cheap model, and a good driver, like that Stan guy, if he's available—" and then he grins and winks at me as he says, "someone with some discretion, understand? I thought you would. Yeah, thanks. Where the fuck else would he be, Mark, jesus? I'll tell him."

He hangs up after giving Mark our flight information, then turns to me. "Mark says hello."

After he puts the phone back, I catch his hand in mine and play with his ring. I really want to kiss him, and I can tell he feels the same by the way he's staring at my mouth and licking his lips. He looks up and smiles in recognition at my expression.

"You're looking a little hungry, Tim. You want me to see if the flight attendant can bring you something to eat?"

"I can wait until later. After all, the limo will be fully stocked, won't it?"

He nods and plants a soft kiss on my palm. "Fully fucking stocked, I assure you." And I have to squirm a little in my seat. I should know better than to wear these jeans, I really should. But I know Bill likes the way I look in them. He sees me squirm and runs his thumb along his chin, hiding a smile.

I make like I'm going to whisper something, and he leans over obligingly. Before I say anything, though, I run the tip of my tongue quickly around the back of his ear, then suck lightly on the lobe. "It better be a stretch limo," I whisper, then lean back and watch as he reaches down to adjust himself. Watching doesn't help my own situation any—my jeans are tighter now than they were a moment ago—but it's worth it.

Sex in a limo turns out to be worth it, too, even though it's a little awkward. I feel a little weird, knowing the driver, whose name is indeed Stan, is up there behind the wheel. I mean, it's got to be pretty obvious what's going on back here, even with the soundproofing and the privacy window. But it certainly makes the drive home enjoyable.

A few years ago, right after the Araber died, I had a job offer with a security firm in LA. For awhile, I seriously considered taking it—thought I'd enjoy living the southern California lifestyle. But I never could have imagined this. Sex in a limo with a rock star, incidentally male, who I was quite willing to spend the rest of my life with—the Tim Bayliss from four or five years ago would have laughed his ass off. Even a couple years ago, I never would have believed I was capable of this kind of commitment, this kind of relationship with another person, much less adopting a couple kids along the way. But there it is, and here I am, heading down the road to our home.

END

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