John was still alive, and it was proving quite a problem.

He had assumed the army would be it for him. He was a captain, and it would make sense he’d die in a field, giving his life for his soldiers. What actually happened was Price watched as the unit he headed became one man smaller again and again. At first, he took it one day at a time, grieving in the quiet moments of his office, accepting it was just a part of the job.

The more he lost, however, the angrier he got. It angered him, watching so many young men and women die painfully to further some politicians cause. It left such a bitter taste in his mouth that he retired, and vowed to use the life he had for something, for all those who lost it following a dream that wasn’t real.

It took him a while, but he bought an old house and renovated it into a pub. Eventually it became a pretty popular spot in his town, and he enjoyed being able to serve real people, keep them warm and happy.

Despite how much he enjoyed it, there was of course one problem: drunk customers. The main problem case was your father, a man who seemed to jump to anger at the second alcohol touched his lip. John was an old SAS captain, it did not scare him. What did worry him was the teen that sat at the man’s table. How sheepish they were, how small they made themselves. His gut feeling was going off like mental, and so he tried to act. As he served you your beer, he slipped you a note with his number, telling you to call if you needed help.

It was a Friday night, and the pub was happily busy once again. A bustling atmosphere, people talking together, it was just another night to him, until a different bar tender alerted him to a phone call, a younger person asking for him, which puzzled him.

“Hello? This is John, the landlord,” he said confidently into the phone.