Sitting in Troy’s inbox last Thursday was the following: N 45° 16.141 W 093° 14.650. He gave a whoop of relief and rushed in to tell his very pregnant wife Amy that he’d be gone for a few days. Three days tops. Registering the gleam in her husband’s eyes, she knew with dead certainty that Alex, her husband’s war buddy, was summoning Troy for another Geocaching adventure. He pleaded. The doctor said everything was fine. “Proceeding along nicely”, Troy said, gesturing with air quotes. Amy jumped the cue from merely unhappy to outraged, suggesting that Troy wasn’t fit to be a father. Tears trickled down her cheeks, but Troy’s mind was made up. Reaching deep within, quelling the growing itch to hit the road, to connect with Alex after more than a year, he lightly touched on the only argument that held any validity. One hundred men died that night on the hillside, he whispered, fist clenched.