I hang on to his words, wrapping my mind around the lesson and my heart around a moment of kindness from a man who is not my father.

*   *   *

Six months ago, my father didn’t yell when he had to pick me up from the principal’s office at the end of my first day of school. Somehow the principal had reached him, and my father had returned early from his fishing trip. Principal Barkley had calmly explained why I had been kicked off the cheerleading squad and why he was considering suspending me. My father, equally as calm, explained why Barkley had better reconsider his position on suspension, seeing as how he’d also have to suspend every student who had illegally texted or e-mailed a compromising photo of a minor. A Mexican standoff occurred, and my father never blinked.

An hour later I followed my father out of the school—not suspended but taking the rest of the day off at my father’s request.

“Follow me home,” he said, unable to look at me. “We’ll talk when we get there.”

For a heartbeat, I’d hoped he would hear me out. But the way he gripped the folder he’d taken from Barkley, crumpling the edges and most likely the picture of me within, I knew I couldn’t count on him.

Three hours later, after alternately yelling at me for shaming our family (i.e., damaging his reputation) and freezing me out, he drove me to the VA Hospital without explanation. He introduced me to Jerry Bausch, their program specialist, with a few terse words.

“Jerry, I thought you might need some help on the Veterans History Project. Quinn is going to be volunteering here after school three days a week until she graduates. I’ll be back to pick her up at 1730 hours.”

My head shot up. That was news to me.

My father shook hands with Bausch and walked away, not sparing another glance toward me. Perhaps I looked like I would cry, because Bausch acted very kind, while he explained what I would be doing.

In an effort to help people understand the experiences of veterans and war, the hospital participated in the Veterans History Project. My job would be to collect photos, letters, diaries, and other documents from any veterans who wanted to take part.

“We also interview the vets,” Jerry said as I tripped down the hall after him. “But you don’t have to worry about that. George—one of our long-term patients—handles the interviews, although he may want your help entering it all into a computer.”

Jerry tapped on the door to room 222B and entered without waiting for a response. The stark hospital room sat empty. Jerry poked his head back out into the hall and called out to a passing nurse, “Any idea where George is?”

The nurse went from irritated to smiling at the mention of George’s name. “Try the west entrance. He said something about taking some pictures outside.”

“Right, thanks,” Jerry said, as if he should have known.

Feeling very much like a puppy on a leash, I trailed after him down to the lobby, out the west entrance, and across the parking lot to the edge of property where an old man in a wheelchair fiddled with a camera. He was missing a leg, his pants leg conspicuously folded at the knee.

“Hey, George! I want you to meet someone.”

The man glanced up, scowled at Jerry, and I thought, Awesome. I get to hang with a grouchy old geezer three days a week for the next nine months.

“This is Lieutenant Colonel Quinn’s daughter.” Jerry announced this with an air of importance, as if George would care who my father was. George spat on the ground, making it clear he didn’t give a shit, and I started liking him a little more.

Jerry tried again. “She’s going to be helping you with the Veterans History Project.” He shifted uncomfortably when the man said nothing, merely stared at him. “Well, then. I’ll go ahead and leave you to it.”

Jerry nodded at me and practically ran back to the hospital, abandoning me with Groucho. Asshole.

“Asshole.”

Surprised at hearing my thought echoed out loud, I glanced at George and found him peering at me.

“You’re not one of those self-entitled kids who acts like a snotty bitch, are you?” he asked in a gruff voice.

I’d been through the wringer that day and didn’t feel like putting up with some stranger’s crap, so I said the first thing that came into my head.

“You’re not one of those cranky old people who uses their age as an excuse to be a prick, are you?”

We stared each other down. A siren sounded in the distance. A bird chirped from a nearby tree. And then George started laughing. The choking sound made me want to slap him on the back to dislodge whatever had gone down his windpipe.

“Smart-ass,” he said without heat. “Get over here. There’s a shot I want to get, and I can’t do it from this damned chair.”

I edged closer, and he shoved his digital camera toward me. On autopilot, I gripped the camera with my right hand, placing my index finger on the shutter button. My left hand cradled the lens.

George gave me an approving nod. “You know how to hold a camera.”

I shrugged. The camera Uncle Eddy had given me had broken long ago, and my father had never replaced it. While I’d had it, I’d loved taking pictures, though. Loved seeing how I could freeze time.

“But do you know how to use it?” George challenged.

I shook my head, and he proceeded to spend the hour giving me my first photography lesson. Somehow he managed to be surly and patient at the same time.

We stopped when the sun disappeared behind the clouds. I handed the camera back to George and moved behind him to push his chair.