When I rang the bell at Jerome’s house, his father answered the door. Steven Jeffries, Major, retired, was an older version of his son. Erect and lean, his salt and pepper hair was cut military style. It was obvious he was suffering from a serious case of war-watching syndrome. We spent a few minutes discussing smart bombs and the options for ground war. A few weeks of television warfare and we were all armchair strategists. We agreed on everything but scud studs. When he paused to figure out what they were, I asked for Jerome.
“He’s out back in the garage.” He hesitated, looking at me in a way that made me wonder if I’d left something unbuttoned, only my sweater didn’t button and covered all relevant zippers. “There’s something different about you today, Miss Stanley.”
“Different?” Mayb
