I hid out in Pop's cabin for a while as he waited for one of his old military buddies, who was still part of the military-industrial complex, to provide him with information. When Pop finally heard something from the guy, two weeks had passed, and according to Pop's informant, there had been some pretty intense chatter among the higher-ups about the destruction of an incredibly important weapons asset in a plane crash near the Gates of the Arctic.

Specifically, the research and development arm of the DoD were bellyaching about the amount of scientific waste resulting from the destruction of the asset while a few of the military brass with the right clearances were calling for the pulling of funding from the entire secret program because of the lapse in security that led to the loss of the resource. Beyond that, Pop's friend knew nothing.

Regardless, the intel from his old pal was enough to convince Pop that the Imhullu Project thought I was dead and incinerated in the violent explosion when the plane slammed into the mountains, a crash from which I had somehow been miraculously spared.

Over those two weeks of seclusion in the cabin waiting for news from his friend, Pop made a plan for what to do with me while I spent my time studying the real world. To 'see' the world without visiting it, I read, watched some of Pop's old VHS movies and listened to him regale me with stories about his days in the army and tales of his beloved late wife. Sometimes, I'd even wander around the cabin, digging through closets and finding old pictures, then questioning him about the photographs. It was an important part of the de-conditioning process for me to explore and find out about things on my own terms without having someone teach me them.

In my mind, I was only playing and exploring, but I think Pop knew what he was doing letting me do my own thing without asking me questions about Imhullu and my past. I realize now that some of my questions to Pop were probably unusual for one adult to ask another, let alone a child to ask randomly. Imhullu had focused on making up the perfect soldiers, which didn't require us to understand much about the outside world. That's why I didn't know what important events were. I had no conception of things like birthdays or weddings or anniversaries.

For his part, Pop patiently explained these things to me as I peppered him with questions, never letting on that it was just plain weird that I didn't already know about the importance surrounding these milestones. I also spent a good portion of that time mourning the loss of my brother, who was probably long dead by now, and I'd often find my heart aching in between the bouts of joy I felt at being free.

One evening, as I sat staring into the fire with a throw blanket over my legs and a worn SciFi paperback in my lap, my eyes began watering as I again thought of 08A. There was a character in the book. A smart alien who had trouble understanding the emotions of humans. That character reminded me of myself... and my brother. What had happened to him? Had his death been swift? I certainly hoped he hadn't lingered when they'd killed him.

After I'd been quiet for far too long, Pop asked me what was wrong between puffs on his pipe. I'd taken a shaky, wavering breath before I'd confided in him about my escape and told him that my brother had helped me get away. The sweet old man had nodded sympathetically as he'd listened to my tale. It was the first time I'd actually spoken about Imhullu, about the horrors I came from and what they'd done to me and many other kids like me.

When I reached the end of my story and he learned that 08A was undoubtedly dead or far worse, Pop offered me this.

"He may be dead, but helping ya' get out like that, that was an act of love, darlin'."

"Really?" I asked, through tears, swiping at my eyes with the rolled up sleeves of the sweater of Yuka's that I wore.

"O' course. And, you know what else I know?"

"What?"

"That he wouldn't a' wanted you to be sad all the time. If he didn't make it after a' getting you out, then he gave his life so that you could live." He leaned back in his chair, taking a big drag on his pipe before adding. "The pain'll never go away, but it'll get easier." He then looked deep into my eyes before finally finishing. "I bet moving on is what your brother would a' wanted, no matter what happened to him."

I nodded, believing what Pop said was true but not knowing if I would ever get over the grief and the guilt. Why had I survived when my brother hadn't? That wasn't right. It wasn't fair, and that's when I realized just how cruel the world was. I would always feel responsible for 08A's death, but over time, I realized that Pop was right. It got easier to process the loss of my brother. However, his memory never left me, and I always cherished the little paper heart he'd given me before he'd disappeared from my life.

***

A few weeks later, when Pop was finally satisfied that the military wasn't looking for me, he explained his plan over a breakfast of oatmeal and toast. "Here's what we'll do, kiddo," he said between mouthfuls of oatmeal smothered in brown sugar.

"We're gonna tell all the folks around here that you're my second cousin's granddaughter. Your father split when you were just a lil' one, and your ma' died. So, you went to live with Bernice, my cousin. My Bernice really did die last month. Our story will be that the state o' Georgia tracked me down, seeing as I'm Bernice's last livin' relative, and asked if I'd look after you."

He smiled a wide, toothy grin, pieces of breakfast stuck in his teeth. "Me bein' the big ole' softie I am, I said course I'd take in the lil' one. So, that's why you came to live with me out of the blue like ya did."

"You think that will work?" I asked, taking a massive bite from my own bowl. It still amazed me how much better food tasted outside of Imhullu. I'd only ever had a regimented diet comprised of high calorie, low fat military-prepared meals, and even something as simple as oatmeal and toast tasted gourmet.

"Course it will!"

He pointed a spoon at me, unintentionally flicking a few little bits of breakfast in my direction. "We'll dye your hair, make it blonde instead a' black. Also, we gotta do somethin' about those eyes. Eyes purple like that ain't natural, ain't right. Someone might suspect somethin' if they see those."

He returned his spoon to his bowl before adding, "I'll order some colored contacts. I know an optometrist who won't ask no questions and pick em' up from my P.O. Box in town. What color you want, Meriwa?"

I thought about it, and my mind went immediately to how much I loved my brothers eyes. "How about green?"

"Green it is," he smiled.

As we sat there that morning, sun streaming through the trees and striking the breakfast table, giving the waxed wood an almost iridescent glow, I didn't realize I would spend the next ten years of my life with Pop every morning sitting at that tiny handmade table in his cramped kitchen.

It was always the warmest part of the cabin because of the wood-burning stove, and I'd often curl up in the little breakfast nook by the window with a good book and a blanket, especially in the dead of winter when it became far too cold to go outside. For the rest of the cabin, which I later learned Pop made himself, there was only one bedroom. Pop insisted I have my own space, though, and initially, he offered me his room. Of course I declined, so he came up with another room plan, and we worked together to clean out the storage closet where I once hid and converted it into a small makeshift bedroom.

"Aw, hell, darlin'. I wish I had a real room for ya'." He said, as he used some lemon-scented cleaner and dusted the walls.

"Oh, Pop, this is just fine." I replied while sitting and bouncing a little on the small mattress we had somehow fit in there. I smiled, genuinely happy to have a space to call my own. At Imhullu, everything was shared and there was no privacy. The thought of a space unique to me had my mind dizzy from joy. The size of the room didn't matter to me, and I'd soon decorated the little space with pictures I'd pulled out of magazines.

When the weather was good, we'd drive down to Coldfoot and eat breakfast with all the truckers driving Dalton Highway. Everyone in the little town seemed to get a kick out of Pop and his antics, and all the locals warmed to me immediately. People living near Coldfoot were already on the fringes of society, and if any noticed irregularities in Pop's tale of my origins, none questioned them. They saw he was good to me and I was happy being there, and that was good enough to him.

One time, one of the truckers came close to questioning Pop about how he'd 'gotten' me, but then my grandfather had simply said I'd been abused and that some really powerful people were looking for me but that he was keeping me hidden here. That had been enough to satisfy the man who I'm sure was trying to do the right thing and make sure I was being taken care of.

People living in and traveling through the wilderness seemed to live by and adhere to their own sort of moral and ethical codes. And they had ways of holding the community accountable that didn't involve law enforcement.

The situation was also helped by Pop who was remarkably good at deception. My disguise of his devising, with the contacts and dyed hair, worked well, in large part because I had fake identification documents which aligned with the cover story Pop concocted shortly after he took me in. The fraudulent documents had come from another of Pop's former Nam buddies, one who made a living through not so wholesome means.

There were no schools for miles, so that first year with him, Pop tried rather unsuccessfully to home school me. Even if my intelligence hadn't been artificially heightened so that I picked up on instruction far too quickly, Pop was simply a terrible teacher.

He'd try to teach me something from a book, then get frustrated with himself and say, "My Yuka would've been so good at this."

At that point, I'd always reply, "That's okay, Pop. I understand it" with a huge smile, one that always seemed to soften his heart. Whether I truly understood the concept didn't matter, I always muddled through my self-directed lessons.

Despite lacking a proclivity for academic learning, Pop did teach me things: how to be kind, how to be good and honest. How to be loved unconditionally and how to love someone back. Despite having no obligation to ever be one for me, Pop was a proper parent. He could have left me in the snow that day or ratted me out to the people hunting me down those first couple of weeks, but he didn't. Thanks to his love, generosity, and kindness, I had a real childhood, as much of one as I could, considering my tragic origin story.

With Pop, I also continued to train. He seemed to realize that I couldn't give up combat. Fighting was literally in my DNA. He never really asked me any hard questions about where I had come from, and whenever the subject of discussion would shift towards my origins, he'd just say, "Where we come from don't necessarily matter. What's important is where we are and where we plan to go."

Over those first few months with him, he'd watch me train outside, throwing knife after knife into the trunk of a tree, hitting the center of trunk almost every time. After a few months of observing my ritual, he started making me targets out of split logs that I could use to practice my knife-throwing.

When I got a little older, he even brought out his Vietnam era Colt M1911A1 "Government" pistol and his Ithaca 37 pump-action shotgun and taught me how to use those. At Imhullu, we rarely used firearms, I supposed because the powers that be wanted to ensure we mastered hand-to-hand combat before relying on guns.

Thinking back, I imagine some of what I could do as a child must have frightened even a seasoned veteran like him, but Pop never let on, and over time, the two of us built our own little life, one filled with mostly happiness.

However, if there's been one lesson taught to me by this short and violent existence, then it's the fact that good things always come to an end.