Part 1: The Camouflage of Mediocrity
The spring breeze whipped through the blossoming dogwoods of the Blackwood estate, stripping the white petals and scattering them across the perfectly manicured lawn like biodegradable confetti. It was a beautiful property—five acres, a colonial-style mansion, and a three-car garage that currently housed a collection of tools, oil stains, and me.
I was under the hood of my 2004 Ford F-150, a truck that had seen more combat zones than most soldiers, though to anyone looking at it, it was just a rust bucket. I was tightening the serpentine belt, my hands covered in grease, wearing a faded gray hoodie that had a hole in the elbow.
To the world, I was John Blackwood: unemployed, unmotivated, and largely useless. A man who seemingly lived off the charity of his successful sister-in-law.
To the United States Army, I was Colonel Johnathan Blackwood, Commander of the 75th Ranger Regiment’s Special Reconnaissance Division. But right now, I was on leave, recovering from a shrapnel wound to the thigh that still throbbed when the damp spring weather turned chilly.
“Still pretending to be useful?”
The voice grated against my ears like sandpaper. I didn’t flinch. I slowly wiped my hands on a rag and turned around.
Sarah stood in the doorway of the garage. She was wearing a cashmere sweater that cost more than my first car and holding a vanilla latte from the expensive café down the street. She looked at me with the kind of disdain usually reserved for roadkill.
