The Warmest Welcome

The key turned in the lock with a sound I'd been dreaming about for six months. Not the click of a rifle bolt or the whine of a Humvee door, but the simple, stupid miracle of my own front door opening.

I smelled it before I saw anything. Cardamom. Cloves. Something rich and slow-roasted that made my stomach twist with a hunger that had nothing to do with the MREs I'd been living on since October.

"Mr. MacTavish!"

Devi appeared in the hallway like she'd been waiting there for hours, which she probably had. Her smile took up most of her face, the kind of smile that made you forget whatever hell you'd just crawled out of. She was wearing a red sweater with a reindeer on it, and her black hair was pulled back in a braid that had already started to unravel.

"Welcome home, welcome home," she said, reaching for my duffel before I could stop her. "You must be so tired. So tired. I made the tea already, it's on the stove, still hot. And the dinner, it's almost ready, just the bread needs to come out, and I was thinking maybe five more minutes, but you are here now so I can check, and oh, your coat is wet, let me take it, the weather is terrible, yes? All week it has been raining, and James, he wanted to wait up, but I told him no, you need your sleep, but he made you something, he worked on it for three days, you will see, it's very good, very good."

She was already halfway down the hall with my bag, talking over her shoulder, and I just stood there in my own doorway like a stranger. The house smelled like a home. There were paper snowflakes taped to the walls. A small Christmas tree sat in the corner of the living room, crooked and covered in tinsel, with a single present underneath wrapped in paper that had Santas on it.

"Devi," I said. "You didn't have to do all this."

She turned back, still smiling, and waved her hand like I'd said something silly. "Of course I did. It's Christmas. James said you might not come home, but I told him, no, your father will come home, he always comes home. And look, I was right."

"Da!"

The sound of small feet on hardwood. James came around the corner at full speed, his pajama pants dragging on the floor, his hair sticking up in seven different directions. He hit me around the waist and squeezed hard enough that I felt it in my ribs.

"Hey, buddy," I said, dropping to my knees so I could hold him properly. He smelled like soap and sleep and something sweet, maybe cookies. "You been good for Devi?"

"I made you a picture," he said, pulling back to look at me with those eyes that were his mother's eyes, brown and serious and too old for seven. "It's got all of us. You and me and Devi and the tree. And there's a dog, but we don't have a dog, I just wanted a dog."

"Fair enough."

I stood up, keeping one hand on his shoulder, and that's when I remembered I wasn't alone. I turned to the door, where four men were standing in various states of awkwardness. Price had his arms crossed, watching the scene with something that might have been approval. Gaz was grinning like an idiot. Ghost stood slightly apart, as always, his mask making it impossible to read his face, but his posture had shifted, softened maybe. And Alejandro was already crouched down, holding out his hand to James like he was approaching a skittish animal.

"Hola, pequeño," he said. "You must be the man of the house."

James looked at him, then at me, then back at him. "I'm seven."

"That's very old," Alejandro said seriously. "I was seven once. It was a good year."

Devi reappeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She stopped short when she saw the group of men filling the entryway, and I watched her face shift from open to careful, the way it did when she was uncertain.

"Oh," she said. "You brought friends."

"Devi, these are my, uh." I paused. How do you explain the 141 to a nineteen-year-old girl who thought the worst thing in the world was a rainy day? "These are my coworkers. We work together."

"Welcome," she said, and the smile came back, a little smaller but real. She did a small bow, the kind you'd do to a teacher or a priest. "Please, come in, come in. Dinner is almost ready. I made enough for everyone. Mr. MacTavish told me you were coming, so I made the big pot."

Price stepped forward first, offering his hand. "John Price. We appreciate you having us."

She shook his hand carefully, like she was afraid of doing it wrong. "Devi. I am Devi. It's very nice to meet you, sir."

"Just Price is fine."

"And I'm Gaz," Gaz said, pushing past Price with a grin. "That smells incredible. What is that?"

"Chicken biryani," Devi said, and her voice got a little stronger, a little prouder. "My mother's recipe. And there's naan, and raita, and I made the Christmas pudding too, but that's for later. Mr. MacTavish, he said you like sweets."

"I like everything," Gaz said.

Ghost hung back, and I saw Devi notice him, her eyes going wide for just a second before she got control of her face. He was a lot to take in, I knew. The mask, the size of him, the way he moved like he was always calculating angles.

"You must be hungry," she said to him, and her voice was soft, gentle, like she was talking to James. "Please, sit. I'll bring the tea."

She disappeared into the kitchen, and James tugged on my sleeve. "Da, can I show you the picture now? Before dinner?"

"Yeah, buddy. Show me the picture."

He ran to the tree and pulled a piece of paper from underneath, holding it up with both hands like a trophy. It was a crayon drawing, the kind that only a seven-year-old could make, all wild colors and disproportionate bodies. There was me, stick-thin and smiling, my hair a yellow scribble. There was James, a smaller version of the same. There was Devi, with a red dot on her forehead that I'd never seen her wear but that James had decided she should have. And there was the tree, green and brown and covered in so many circles that it looked like it was growing ornaments.

"This is us," he said. "This is our family."

I looked at the drawing, then at him, then at the house that a nineteen-year-old girl had turned into something I barely recognized. The paper snowflakes. The crooked tree. The smell of cardamom.

"That's right," I said. "That's us."

From the kitchen, I heard Devi humming something, a tune I didn't recognize. And from the doorway, I felt Ghost's eyes on me, steady and unreadable.

I folded the picture carefully and put it in my pocket.