The Paladin Book 1 Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Sunday

November 21st

The next morning I woke up well rested and in only moderately agonizing pain. I fell out of my bed, wiping the morning grogginess out of my eyes. After a split second of decision making, I slid on a pair of sweatpants, t-shirt and an old TCPD hoodie gingerly, then headed down to my workshop. Weekend mornings, afternoons, and really any other time not devoted to fighting crime was spent in the forge, repairing gear and honing my skills. It wasn’t exactly doing my social life any favors but it was a necessary evil for the job. That particular morning was going to be spent working on my armor which had gotten pretty banged up the night before. Luckily for me it was a pretty simple fix. All I had to do was change out the kevlar padding and a couple of the titanium plates. Unfortunately, the shield was a complete bust. It had been riddled with so many holes it would take less time to melt down the steel and make a new shield than repair it. So I tossed it off in the scrap pile, joining all the off-balance swords, faulty armors, and busted gear that were soon to be melted down and reconstituted. Luckily for me, my free time was spent making replacements for my equipment, so another five shields just like it were waiting in the back of the workshop. With a new shield in hand, it was time to train.

Whenever I had spare time I was usually training, to the point where it was practically a reflex. My regiment was simple; an hour on sword and mace, a half hour of throwing, a half hour on the heavy bag, and an hour on wrestling drills and conditioning. I had considered adding a bow and arrow to my repertoire, but I was too nearsighted to do it with any efficacy. It wasn’t the most labor-intensive training regimen, but I wasn’t exactly locking blades with any street samurai, so it did the trick just fine. By the end of the day’s training, I was pretty puffed out, dirty sweat soaking through the bandage on my back, stinging the raw nicks and divots in my skin. As I started walking back to the house to take a shower, I was met at the door by a man in his mid-thirties, climbing out of his pick-up truck.

“Well hello there Gerald, come to see my dad presumably,” I greeted with feigned formality.

“Perceptive as always Booker, nothing slips past you. He asked me about helping him get a tactical training seminar for the police force so I figured I’d stop by and hash out a plan with him, maybe over some lunch or something,” Gerry informed. Gerry was one of my parent’s closest friends since before they met me. He met my dad in the Army towards the end of my dad’s military career. They worked together on a number of joint operations and ended up becoming close after coming home. Once Gerry came back he got his master’s degree in history at Northlake University where he ended up meeting my mom. From there all it took was a few forced meet ups courtesy Gerry and the rest is history, ironically Gerry’s specialty. After playing matchmaker for my parents he became an adjunct professor for West Point, professor specializing in military conflicts, though in his day to day he worked for his alma mater Northlake. Gerry was quite a well respected academic, though you wouldn’t know it with his casual wardrobe and more than average musculature for a man in his early forties. He also happened to be the only person who knew about my night time hobby, which came from a long night spent at his apartment removing the first bullet from my arm. Good times. “By the way, you’re bleeding champ, top right shoulder," he pointed out, gesturing towards my arm. I felt around my shoulder area and sure enough, the bandage had bled through and my t-shirt was stained red.

“Shit! Thanks, guess I better get on taking a shower. Also, my dad is at the station, probably won’t be back for a couple of hours,” I replied.

“Thanks. So, do I even want to know? Got a little careless and got flanked? Wouldn’t your armor cover that part of you though?" he inquired, examining the wound.

“Normally it would, but these guys were professionals. They must have been running about five thousand dollar rigs, easily. SCAR heavys, with top of the line optics, on top of tungsten core rounds. My suit never stood a chance, cut through it like butter. Judging by their formation and tactics I’d say they were ex-military, probably some sort of special forces, which would explain everything else,” I elaborated.

“Tungsten core? Highly regulated. Are you thinking they’re ex-military? These guys sound like they’re high rollers if what you’re saying is true. Maybe you should take a minute to think about this before you get hurt,” Gerry insisted.

“Well, I got shot last night Gerry so I’d say it’s a little too late for that,” I chuckled. Gerry clearly didn’t see the humor in my quip as his face stayed deadpan. “Look, I’ll be fine. I went a little too hard last night, didn’t have a good plan and paid the price. I’ll just gotta go after them from another angle. Next time with a better plan.”

“You need to stop or you’re going to get yourself killed, Booker. Whoever hired those guys sounds like he’s coming after you specifically and he has enough money to pay high-level hit-men to do it,” Gerry pointed out.

“This guy is buying people, Gerry. Not just adults but children too, children. I’m not stopping, and if you were in my shoes you know you wouldn’t either,” I made clear. He opened his mouth but then stopped himself.

“Come back to my place Booker. You look like you’ve been stabbed and we don’t want to give your mother a heart attack. Just grab a change of clothes, you can use my shower and get cleaned up. Meanwhile, I’ll make some calls and I see if I can dig up any intel from one of my friends at the FBI. Samantha’s got jiu-jitsu until six so that gives us about two hours of uninterrupted planning before she comes back. That sound fair to you?" he offered. I nodded.

“Just let me grab some things,” I confirmed, sneaking around the back of the house through my bedroom window to grab a spare set of clothes.

(Same time across town)

“This is not even fair, Sam,” Johnny insisted as he pried against her clutch. He was right, it wasn’t very fair. With regards to skill, it was no contest, and she outclassed him athletically. At that point, Samantha had gotten Johnny’s back and could’ve ended the bout whenever she wanted. But she didn’t want to end it, not yet. She was toying around, a little first, figuring out different holds and maneuvers she could use from the rear. All the while, Johnny struggled to get off his back like a turtle balanced on its shell.

“Come on Johnny, don’t be too discouraged. I’ve been doing this for a couple of years now and you just picked it up, like three months ago. Hardly fair to compare. Now I’ve taught you the tricks, try and get out, isolate the arms, don’t let me get the position," she coached calmly. Johnny made a move to reverse his positioning but Samantha saw it coming and decided to end the sparring right then and there. She sank in the rear naked choke and before Johnny knew it she’d locked it in without any chance of escape. “Tap, it’s locked in and it's not coming out Johnny," she advised. Right before he passed out he tapped out and she let him go, his face beet red from the circulation getting caught off. “You okay?” she checked in, making sure he wasn’t light headed at all.

“Does humiliated count as okay?” he asked. She playfully shoved him, pulling herself up, and then him. “All I have to say is thank God we found this place for training in private, cause I don’t think I’d be able to take this many ass beatings out in public,” Johnny joked, pointing to the floor of the vacant apartment complex.

“I know it’s been nearly a year since this place got shut down, and no one knocked it down or tried to renovate it," Samantha agreed.

“I’m not gonna question it. By the way, has anyone ever told you you’re freakishly strong? Like a grown ass man stuffed in a teenage girl’s body,” he asked.

“Maybe you’re just soft, Johnny boy. Maybe, instead of all those video games you keep playing, you should be hitting the gym or maybe a heavy bag," she teased with a grin, grabbing at his slender arms.

“Hey, those video games keep my reflexes sharp and my aim on the level. Last I checked, you couldn’t hit the broadside of a skyscraper with your aim," he pointed out, swatting her hand away.

“Well, then it’s good guns aren’t my thing," she countered.

“I guess it is. Speaking of which, did you hear about that failed bust at Brick and Mortar last night?" he inquired. She shook her head with a look of curiosity. “Another spotting for your boy, the Paladin. This time he walked into Brick and Mortar asking about human trafficking, top floor gala becomes a shooting gallery and he ends up going out the window," he described.

“Did he die…?" she questioned with concern.

“Apparently after nose diving onto the roof of a car he just got up and ran off.”

“Holy shit.”

“And get this, the police now have him linked to over seventy-five cases in the past year alone," he informed. Whilst he was talking, he made his way over to his backpack and grabbed a newspaper with the story plastered on the front page, handing it to Samantha.

“I told you he was the real deal. Now do you agree with me that we need to reach out?" she replied.

“We need to expand our operation here, the two of us alone aren’t making a goddamn dent. So yeah, I think we need some help,” he agreed. Samantha nodded as she skimmed through the article.

“Awesome, you work the heavy bag while I do some more digging, and see if I can’t come up with anything we can use to find the Paladin," she advised.

“Come on, you know I’m better at researching than you are, plus I’m in the loop at the police station with my mom and stuff," he reminded.

“I know. That’s why you’re working the heavy bag, so we can work on our weaker areas," she said, doing her best not to offend him. He grumbled something about being perfectly fine at throwing punches as he made his way to the heavy bag, while Samantha grabbed her laptop and started digging.

(Back at Gerry’s Apartment)

Taking a long shower after my training always felt good, but it was especially satisfying without having someone banging on the door, asking how long you’ll be or complaining about how you’re using up the hot water. I came out of the steamy shower feeling revitalized and in a good mood. My wound wasn’t infected, which was always a plus, and while I was in the shower, Gerry had been working hard trying to find a lead for me. I dried off, trying my best to avoid getting blood on Gerry’s chalk white towels and pulled on my fresh clothes. Then strode down the hallway into the office where Gerry sat in front of his laptop, balancing a phone between his shoulder and ear.

“No Mikey, you don’t need to give me the confidentiality spiel, okay?” Gerry insisted. “I’ve been dealing with CIA level classified intel since before your oldest was in diapers, I think I can handle keeping a lid on your FBI shit," he pointed out, rolling his eyes while giving me the ‘one-moment’ gesture. “Yeah, thanks for your concern. First round is on me next time, bye now," he finalized, hanging up the phone. “Prick.”

“What’s the deal? Get any good intel?” I asked. Gerry shifted his laptop over to my direction and tapped on the screen.

“Not much to work with, but according to my guy at the FBI this is all they know about a crew using military hardware that fit that description," he assured. I leaned in closer, slowly scanning each line of info, trying to glean any helpful details. Designation SEAL Team Zero, four active unnamed members, went AWOL in Saudi Arabia around 2008 only to pop up in Hong Kong the following year. Then they showed up in Moscow, St. Petersburg, Los Angeles, Milan, Cairo, Rome, and Budapest. They traveled more in the course of a couple of years than I had in my lifetime. There were a total of ten political assassinations attributed to them, with five others still under investigation. It pretty much reaffirmed everything I already knew; ex-military, mercenaries, high cost, very dangerous.

“They don’t have any names on these guys? I mean, you’d think if they’re this big a threat, the Navy would help out the FBI,” I figured.

“Everyone who knew about them is either retired or dead. Their names have been redacted from every transcript and the Navy’s databases have been stripped of their identities. These guys are ghosts, and are seriously dangerous," he responded. I scratched my head, thinking of how I could possibly use this information; how it could give me an edge.

“Print it out for me will you? I need to start a profile on these guys and their employer. Maybe I should hit the street and start shaking down the usual intel brokers,” I figured.

“You really think some street rats are going to know about these guys?” Gerry asked in an unsure manner.

“You’d be surprised how much those guys pick up. That reminds me, there was a name I got the other night. Ugh, what was it? What was it? Byron, that’s what it was. Punch in Byron Brick and Mortar and see what comes up,” I urged. Gerry nodded and typed in the info with a whole slew of results spreading down the page. “Byron White, owner of Brick and Mortar. What do you know guys got a rap sheet, prostitution, assault with a deadly weapon, smuggling, drug trafficking… Public indecency? Seems like we’ve found us a winner,” I read. All of a sudden we heard the front door open and close and footsteps rang throughout the apartment.

“Gerry! I’m home!" Samantha yelled from the kitchen.

“Print out all the info. I’ll keep her distracted,” I assured with unnecessary resolve.

“What? Why don't you…? Forget it,” he sighed. I walked down the hall and peeked into the kitchen where I found Samantha rummaging through the refrigerator.

“Hey Samantha,” I greeted, my voice awkwardly cracking. I wasn’t the smoothest of guys, to begin with, but I was so much worse with Samantha than other girls. That being said, I was nothing if not distracting so it all kinda worked. She looked up from the fridge with a smile, beautiful as ever. Samantha was sixteen as well, long jet black hair that flowed with a mesmerizing sheen, olive skin that had lost most of its tan as winter approached, jade green eyes that reminded me of a tropical ocean, and a body that made me forget all of those other features. I had known her for a while but been friends with her for a little more than a year at that point and had a crush on her the entire time.

“Hi Booker. Didn’t know you were over, I thought Gerry usually tutors you on weekdays,” she pointed out.

“Yeah… Well… Yeah, I usually have history tests on Fridays but this week it’s on a Monday so he and I figured it would be best to move the study session to today,” I bullshitted on the spot.

“Smart, as always. You know, you should really stay for dinner tonight. Things can get pretty dull with Gerry droning on and on about history, not gonna lie,” she offered, with a smile that rendered more speechless than a bullet to the chest.

“Um… I…” I started.

“He can’t tonight, unfortunately. He has to go home and study some more for tomorrow, isn’t that right, Book? I’m expecting an A on that test,” Gerry answered, cutting off my haphazard response by slapping a manila folder against my chest. “Your study guide.”

“Yeah. Sorry, I gotta test… I mean I have to study… for the test… that I have tomorrow,” I stammered.

“Well, that sucks, are you coming over anytime this week? Now that you don’t have a test on Friday?” she questioned.

“Yeah, wouldn’t miss it,” I confirmed. Gerry gave me a brief but obviously skeptical look. “You know cause I gotta keep my grades up, never stop learning, is what I always say,” I elaborated. I have never said that.

“Alright then Booker, take care," she said with another smile and a cute wave.

“You too Samantha. Night Gerry,” I finalized, nearly running into the door as I walked away.

“Night Booker,” Gerry replied, holding back a smile. “Special kinda kid,” he noted once I had left and was out of earshot.

“Oh be nice to him, he’s just a little bit socially awkward," Samantha insisted.

“That’s funny, he seems to speak just fine around me,” Gerry pointed out.

“Shut up!” she insisted. Gerry swooped around Samantha and leaned on her shoulders.

“Why, you got a crush on him? Are you smitten with Booker Kelly?” Gerry asked, before Samantha swatted him off of her. “I mean he’s pretty cute, a real dream boat if you ask me. I mean, that pale Irish skin, those golden locks, that smushed nose, the deep blue eyes, and those slightly messed up ears, be still my beating heart.”

“Will you stop? It’s not even like that with us!” Samantha made clear as she turned redder and redder.

“Oh Booker, Gerry’s just sooo boring, and you’re sooo interesting. Why don’t you stay for dinner? You always tell such great and interesting stories, tee hee,” he imitated in falsetto, as he twirled imaginary locks of hair between his fingers flirtatiously.

“He’s just a nice guy. A funny, good, nice guy. Something you don’t see a lot of in high school, believe it or not. And you know, if you weren’t so boring at dinner then maybe I wouldn’t have to ask," she retorted. Gerry put up his hands in mock surrender.

“Okay, I get it. I won’t even mention your not-a-crush. So how was the day? How was class? Learn a lot? Kick some ass? Take some names?" he asked genuinely.

“It was good, you know just a typical class, saw Johnny there, rolled with him for a bit," she chronicled.

“You win?” Gerry questioned.

“Of course I did,” she answered matter-of-factly. Gerry smiled and gave her a high five.

“That’s my girl. You know what you should do? You should take your not-a-crush Booker out with Johnny and roll around. Bet you three would have a lot of fun hanging out together, just like those two and Colt did back in the day,” he pointed out.

“You just want to see me put Booker to sleep, don’t you? You’re a mean-spirited old man, you know that?” Samantha figured. Gerry shrugged.

“While I’m not entirely against the notion, I think you’d be surprised. I think that Booker might have a few tricks up his sleeve, you know he didn’t get that cauliflower ear crocheting,” he replied, ever so slightly teasing my persona.

“Oh that’s not funny Gerry. Booker is a lover, not a fighter, he’s said as much himself. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. It would just be mean to take him to the mat," she insisted.

“Or maybe you just don’t want your not-a-crush to see you hot and sweaty, grappling with other guys and emasculating them? Just sayin’,” he offered, raising an eyebrow. She gasped at his audacity.

“I’m not even going to gratify that with a response.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not right,” he reminded in a sing-song tone. She rolled her eyes and started searching the cabinets.

“Did you really eat all of the blueberry yogurt on me?" she asked with disappointment. Gerry simply shrugged in response. “Unreal. It’s like living with another teenager. Can I at least borrow the truck to grab some more?” she inquired.

“As long as you don’t back into any parked cars,” he replied, tossing her the keys.

“It was one time Gerry and if you hadn’t been backseat driving I would’ve been fine,” she insisted, heading to the door.

“Whatever you say champ, and stay off the main roads, I don’t want you getting pulled over with nothing but a permit and no adult!” he responded as she closed the door behind her.

It was a cold night in Tar City. Fall was fading quickly as winter came in as gently as a punch to the face. Unfortunately for me, I didn’t look up the forecast, so I was stuck in freezing temperatures with a light hoodie and jeans. Stupid Booker! Though I wasn’t as mad with myself about forgetting a jacket as I was about how poorly I handled talking to Samantha. Not only was I as awkward as ever but now I had to add stuttering like an idiot to the list of winning qualities. After a couple of minutes of dwelling on it, I let it go. Odds were Samantha wasn’t even into me, and even if I had flirted with her and not made an idiot of myself, it would have been pointless. In the midst of my mulling, I was interrupted by a loud truck horn which made me nearly jump out of my boots. I turned around and behind me was Samantha in Gerry’s truck.

“You need a lift? You look like you’re freezing your ass off,” Samantha offered.

“That’s probably cause I am freezing my ass off,” I replied.

“Well get in then. I’m not gonna make you walk home four miles, at night, in below freezing weather, with nothing but a sweatshirt on, straight through the sketchiest part of town,” she pointed out.

“Well when you put it like that, who am I to say no?” I accepted. I didn’t need to be told twice. Crossing the street, I looped around the truck and got into the already warmed up cabin.

“Back to your house, I presume?"

“Yeah, just follow this street until Bay road and then take a left and I’m the one at the end of the cul de sac,” I informed, gesturing the directions.

“I remember where your house is Booker," she dismissed. At that moment about a million things were going through my mind, the most important to me at the time was how I was going to make up for sounding like an idiot. What should I talk about? What is Samantha even interested in? Art! She’s interested in art! Wait, shit, I know nothing about art. “You’re awfully quiet, alot on your mind?” she asked, as I ran through my mental Rolodex of any possible conversations.

“Oh… Sorry, I get a little bit spacey sometimes, you know. It’s not like you’re boring or anything, it's just something I do,” I apologized.

“No offense taken,” she assured.

“How’s art going? Working on any new pieces?” I inquired, taking a shot in the dark.

“Pretty good, just working on this new acrylic. It’s pretty cool actually, you might appreciate it, a little bit like your smithing. You have to prepare it very specifically or risk having to start over. I feel like a chemist when I’m doing it,” she detailed. That’s a very loose connection to smithing but I’ll take it. She could have been talking about conflicts in the Middle East for all I cared, just hearing her talk made me smile. But hearing her talk about something she was passionate about always enhanced the feeling. “So, I’ve got a question for you. How much have you heard from your dad about this Paladin guy? You know the one who was in the paper today? The paper said he was in charge of the case,” she inquired. That’s a weird question.

“Not much. The same type of crazy, different MO,” I replied, doing my best to avoid suspicion.

“I don’t know, I think he’s kinda inspiring. The first hero since the ban ten years ago. It’s pretty amazing to me," she countered. God, I wish I could tell her. “Anyway, the only reason I asked was that I was thinking about doing a project on the history of vigilantes in the US and I wanted to see if I could maybe catch a picture of him.”

“Wouldn’t that be kinda dangerous? I mean he goes out looking for fights, in the roughest parts of town, that means if you find him you’re likely to find trouble too.”

“I know… I just think it would really make this project, really set it apart from everyone else's," she explained. I was trapped, I wanted to help her out, but I didn’t want to give anything away.

“Well, they say there’s been a lot of sightings of him around Old Town, around the condemned district. If you really wanna see him I’m guessing that would be your best bet,” I hinted. I noticed a small little smile curl up around her face as I told her. I figured that I’d stop by the condemned district for a couple of quick pictures and then run off and she’d be none the wiser. “By the way, that's the turn,” I pointed out. She jolted right, cutting off a car in oncoming traffic, the tires screeching as she did. Suddenly I heard the all too familiar sound of a police siren blaring behind us.

“Shit! Maybe it’s not for us,” she said hopefully, red and blue lights flashing in her rearview.

“It’s for us,” I assured. Sure enough, the squad car hailed the truck over to the side of the road and the officer inside got out, slowly approaching the side window.

“License and registration. Oh hey, Booker! Should've figured that troublemaking this side of town would be you,” joked the cop. The uni was an older sergeant named Jimmy who’d been on the force well before I was born. Been there so long he took my father for his first ride along. He’d always been a friend of the family and one of my dad’s close buddies, so I was banking on that to get us out of a ticket.

“Hey Jimmy, sorry about that, I just zoned out and forgot to tell Samantha here which turn to take until we were passing it. Totally my bad. I should've been more clear,” I explained.

“Don’t worry about it, you two don’t look like you're up to any trouble. I’m gonna let you go with a warning. Just drive a little bit more carefully. Oh be a good kid, Booker, and tell your dad he still owes me twenty bucks from last Wednesday’s poker night,” he made clear.

“Gambling is against the law officer, I don’t know anything about that,” I replied with a devious smile.

“That’s right, so if the Chief asks, it's just a game between friends where some money is exchanged,” he replied with a devious smile of his own. He patted the hood and started heading back to his squad car. “You two be careful now,” he made clear, driving off a few seconds later. Samantha breathed a deep sigh of relief. I’d never seen her that worried before.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” she assured, her expression and her voice telling me otherwise.

“Really? Cause you look like you’ve just been told you have two days to live,” I joked. I was starting to get a little concerned, I hadn’t ever seen her like that. “Seriously, what’s up? I mean he didn’t take your permit, crisis averted.”

“It’s just that I've never been pulled over before, and cops make me nervous,” she explained briefly.

“My dad is a cop,” I pointed out.

“He’s the exception,” she retorted, her breath tight. Instinctively I took hold of her hand gently, letting her know I was there with her. Whoa! What are we doing here?! I asked myself. I figured she would recoil instantly, but she didn’t.

“Hey, how about we take a minute? You can compose yourself a little, maybe chat and then be on our way, sound fair?” I offered, starting to get a little concerned. She nodded in agreement, holding my hand back. “So what’s with the whole being nervous around cops?”

“It’s a bit personal,” she answered. That didn’t give me much to go on, but I got the message loud and clear. Back off.

“I understand. So… you said you were doing a project on the history of superheroes in the US? Maybe I could help you out with that? Don’t let the tutoring fool you, I’m actually pretty good at history,” I brought up, trying to change the topic.

“That’s nice of you but I’ll probably just get Gerry to help out. You know him, he loves this sort of thing. He’ll probably volunteer to do all of the writing and I’ll just make it look nice. But thanks,” she replied. I nodded in comprehension. It was a longshot. “So have you talked to Colt recently? I hear he’s really enjoying MIT, he’ll have finished his first degree by the end of the year, can you believe that?" she informed. Damn Colt, with your stupid high IQ and your stupid good looks.

“No, we haven’t really talked in a while,” I responded. Colt was one of my childhood best friends and Gerry’s late wife’s child from a previous relationship. When Colt was about ten years old he was MENSA tested, scored a 170 IQ, and was determined to be a savant. Not long after he was given a full ride to MIT for biology or something like that. Good for Colt, the problem was when it came to girls, I always ended up playing second fiddle. Even when he’d been gone for more than three years and lived two states away, he still managed to worm his way into the conversation.

“That’s a shame, you two and Johnny used to be really close from what they’ve told me,” she reminded.

“I didn’t know that you hung out with Johnny?”

“Yeah, we’re in a lot of the same classes at Midtown, I’ve got the History teacher, foster dad and Art’s kind of my jam. Meanwhile he’s a Math whiz and fluent in Spanish. So we became study buddies pretty quickly.”

“That’s cool,” I remarked.

“It is. So end of the cul de sac right?” she clarified, letting go of my hand which I had completely forgotten about.

“Yeah yeah, right, it’s right down there,” I confirmed, snapping out of the moment. She put the truck in drive and managed to make it to my house without any more hitches. She slowed to a halt and parked in the front, right by the mailbox. “Thanks for the ride, would’ve taken like an hour to get back.”

“No problem Booker,” she assured with a smile. She looked so beautiful under the moon, her sharp features contoured by the pale light. Her vibrant green eyes practically glowing in the dark like night vision goggles. Any more anxiety and I probably would have thrown up in her lap. She was only about a foot away, close enough. Kiss her idiot! Or at least say something! I opened up the car door and stepped out heading for my house.

“Drive safe,” I finalized. She waved me off and drove down the street leaving me alone in front of my house. “Drive safe? Drive safe?! Oooh, I hate you, I hate you so much!” I scolded, booting a rock down the driveway in frustration as I grumpily trudged my way inside.