May 17th, 2022. Five months after the IED - one month after the awards ceremony. Our transport van slows to a halt in the handicap parking space, and Trish gets out and joins the driver at the side door to lower my wheelchair to the ground. I push forward with dexterity, then whip my chair around with a firm brake on one side. “Thanks for the ride, Leo! We won’t be too long.” I'm careful to thank our drivers nowadays; especially when they make special trips for us. Trish should be able to drive soon, but we're often on too many narcotics to be allowed to drive ourselves. The dino gives us a low wave before returning to the driver’s seat. I freely roll backward along the uneven ground for a moment as Trish catches up, scolding me with her eyes for not looking where I’m going. I turn back around and face our destination: Dilo Defense. I gaze up at the graphic of a dilophosaurus head silhouette, the eye replaced with a crosshair as I wheel myself up to the curb I know I cannot surmount. Trish prepares to help pull my chair up the curb, but I refuse. “I want to use the cane this time,” I tell her. “You’re not gonna get away with that.” “The hell I won’t! I want to freak these guys out. Tony’s gonna flip.” I say with a smile as I heave myself from my chair with my cane in my left hand. “God, fine,” Trish relented, coming to my arm to secure my elevation. “Come on, grandpa, let’s get you inside.” I let her help me up and fake a strained old-man voice, “eeeerrgh, fuck you, I need more Vicadin.” She laughs at my crummy joke as she postures her left arm through my right, nervously ensuring I won’t fall over. After a short but painful walk, Trish opened the glass door, and the employee at the counter spotted me through the glass. “Tony! The cripple’s loose!” He yells towards the back room. “HOLY SHIT!” I hear a voice yell before seeing the dilophosaurus emerge from the back with his signature limp. He keeps the feathers on his head slicked back like an Italian mob boss. I don’t know if he really is Italian, I just like to imagine he is. He spots me, immediately lights up with a smile, and rounds the counter to greet me. “Raptor Jesus, he’s evolved to stand on two legs!” He exclaims excitedly as he hurriedly approaches. Trish lets me stand on my own for a second, knowing what’s about to happen. The excited dilo wraps his arms around my chest and squeezes me tightly, “Rrrghhh, I knew it! I knew it was gonna be soon!” He releases me and looks up at me, a new expression of surprise mixing in with his excitement, “You’re tall as shit! You can’t hide behind the shelves anymore!” Tony owns Dilo Defense. He’s a veteran like us, but he didn’t retire for many more years after his injury. He was an armorer for 16 years after he got hurt; The dino loves guns. We're really comfortable in his store because he's unfazed by our injuries— some of the other civvie-owned stores just don’t have the same feel to them. People get uncomfortable around us, but our normally grotesque disfigurements don’t exist here. He quickly turns to Trish, “And you, how you doing girlie? Good to see ya!” He pats her arm in greeting. Trish chuckles at the dilophosaurus’s warm enthusiasm, “Doing good, Tony. We’re here for Anon’s Sig.” Tony snaps his fingers, points at Trish, and quickly returns behind the gun counter. “Ahhh, the beautiful, gorgeous P220 Elite! I have it for you. Still sure you don’t want to go with the Mk. 23? I tell ya, .45 super is just as powerful as 10 mil, and it’s German-made. Nobody really makes ‘em like the Germans.” He grabs a small case sitting by the doorway to the back room and drops it on the counter before us. “However, I admit, I am partial to the gorgeous wooden grips on this beauty.” He opens the case towards us, revealing the beautiful stainless steel, wooden-gripped, 10mm SigSarco P220 Elite pistol. Trish beats me to it, scooping the gun up and pulling the slide back, revealing its empty chamber and admiring its beauty. I put my hand out in expectation, and she puts the gun in my hand. I lean my cane against the counter to operate it with two hands. Trish notices and wraps her left arm around my lower back softly, preparing to steady me. I look the gun over, checking it for dings, blemishes, or knots in the wood of the grips. Finding nothing of concern, I lock the slide to the rear to inspect the top of the barrel and the feed ramp. Perfectly clean and polished. The gun is new, as advertised. I get curious and flip the takedown lever, carefully pulling the slide apart from the gun to inspect the guts. Under the hood, I find very solid, heavy-milled steel parts of relatively simple mechanical construction. Perfect. Gorgeous. I look over at Trish and catch her gazing lovingly up at me, a soft smile spread across her face. She breaks my gaze and turns away, her face turning a slightly brighter purple. I see a woman beyond her at the counter, blatantly staring at the wounded side of Trish’s face. I look back to the gun and subtly up at Tony, who pats the counter conclusively and leaves me with the gun and my 4473 form. “Hey there, anything I can help ya with? Anything you want to see?” He says to the woman, breaking her stare and getting her attention before Trish can notice. Trish is already beyond tired of the questions. It’s the first thing out of anybody’s mouth anymore. She learned to wear a bright yellow-on-black ‘GOARMY’ tee shirt, which in addition to showing off the shape of her voluminous chest and stunning muscles, serves as a baseline explanation for everybody around, so they ask less. They figure out she was injured in combat, and that satisfies them. She can almost feel normal, but not quite. We get requests for interviews all the time. The media encircle us like vultures, wanting to know the story. I don’t feel bad telling them to kick rocks. It’s the families that get me, the ones left behind. I still have to call Farcy’s wife. I don’t know what I could say to her; her husband died saving my life, and I didn’t deserve it. I’m not gonna call his family just to cry about it like a little bitch. I’ll get around to it eventually, but not today. Today is a happy day. We finish up the transaction and head outside, our driver patiently waiting. I fall into my wheelchair parked outside the entrance to the store, relieved. “That’s enough standin’ for one day.” “I’ll say. You were wobbling like a palm tree in a monsoon.” I reward her snarky comment with a “Fuck youuu,” and she laughs, satisfied that her joke hit its mark, as I wheel alongside her towards the van. With a little help from my friends, I got loaded into the van again, and my wheelchair parked. Trish slouched way back in the seat next to me. “Happy birthday, by the way,” she sneers teasingly. “Thanks, Trish.” I smile at her warmly. She bought the gun in exchange for my Beretta 92fs. I wanted a different gun after the Crossroads Incident. Trish’s shooter, and Farcy’s killer, was a human suicide agent. My Beretta worked, but only barely. I need more power. Trish’s survival of a 7.62x39 round to the head, while a miracle, is a terrifying reminder of how strong dino bodies are. If her shooter in Iraq would’ve been a dino… … I couldn’t ever sell the Beretta. It saved our lives. It’s special. Trish says we should retire it and keep it in the collection. I’m sure she’ll take good care of it, and the pistol she bought today will take good care of me. After our squad got nearly eradicated at the crossroads in Al-Anbar and 2nd squad made it out by the skin of their teeth with us, FOB Webster coordinated with a major base in Ramadi, and two platoons descended upon the crossroads and canvassed the surrounding 15 square miles with UAV recon, dogs, minesweepers, the works. It is unusual for an American soldier to be killed in combat, even more so for almost an entire squad to be wiped out, so high brass dropped the hammer down. Almost as if our dead bodies were more important to get home than our live ones. Someone much higher up the chain of command took direct control of BLUFOR in the area after the resounding failure of whatever faceless TOC commander they had running ops at the time. I asked, but I didn’t get any more info than that. It’s a tale as old as the government; Classified dirtbags covering each other’s classified asses. At least this meant that my pistol was recovered from the scene. My platoon commander, Captain Foster, made a point to ship it back stateside for me. He included a letter. Anon Mous, It wasn’t your fault. Farcy was a brother to me. One of my best friends. I know him, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way than for you two to survive in his stead. He fulfilled the purpose he aspired to, and I know he watches proudly from the great beyond. I’m just glad you took down the haji that killed him. Don’t waste the life he gave you to live. It went on to tell me that he never would've smoked Klepp for letting me have a sidearm if he knew it would be directly responsible for saving the only two survivors of his first squad. I sensed intense guilt through his handwriting. He wrote that he would never deny a soldier under his command a sidearm for as long as he lived. He hopes mine finds me well. I feel guilty for being one of only two survivors of a squad of good men, but he now has to live with the guilt of having an entire squad wiped out under his command. He was in charge during one of the biggest losses of American life the Iraq war would ever see. It wasn't his fault, but he certainly doesn't believe that. I hope he makes it home. "Who?" Trish asks. The world fills in around me, and I become conscious of the sounds of our van driving over the poorly maintained roads on our way back to home base. I spaced out again. "Captain Foster," I say. "Fuck…" she says sadly. “Yeah, I hope he’s okay.” July 10th, 2022. Seven months after the IED. A long time had passed since the IED, and our recovery was nearly complete. I was walking with a normal cane in most places, and Trish was getting her last surgery soon. Walking was still painful, but I could do it in short bursts. We were signed up for a program to let us recover from our homes until the end of our contracts. We didn’t even know about the program, but someone had already filed the forms. Who? We didn’t know. How? An even greater mystery. These forms required our social security numbers and a bunch of other information. But, one way or another, we didn’t complain. We were ready to get the hell out of Otter Reed and back to Volcaldera. Trish and I haven’t done a lot of talking about what we’ll do when we get home. I think we’re both avoiding the subject. There’s not much to say, anyways. We both know what we want: Lucy. I’m gonna do everything in my power to make Lucy forgive Trish. She was controlling and a bad friend, but she’s different now by a long shot. If I can give her a shot at her best friend back, I will. I owe her my life, after all. I just hope Lucy is ready. Our return home isn’t our only elephant in the room, though. I need to call Farcy’s wife. I initially thought Trish should be the one to do it, and we both need to, but I’m the out of us who remembers the day. The hours leading up to it— The seconds… As soon as she got my number— I have no idea how— she called my phone every day in the hospital. I got lucky enough to be away from my phone the first few times, and I saved her number. I don’t know what I could possibly say to her. She’s been leaving me messages, now only once every couple of weeks. I stopped listening to them after the first couple of weeks. At first, I was thinking about what to say, but then I started putting it off. The more time has passed, the scarier it gets. The elephant grows ever larger. “Yesterday would’ve been nice, but today is better than tomorrow,” Trish speaks up next to me. “W-What?” I sputter, trying to sort out the mental flashbang she just assaulted me with— thinking she hit me with some sort of fucked up riddle. She doesn’t look at me, instead focusing on her driving with a lazy gaze out onto the road. She's wearing civilian clothes. Rather, civilian-ish. She has her 'GOARMY' tee on with some shorts on her legs. The purple color of her thighs down to her calves, as well as her exposed biceps and forearms, lit up her side of the rental van with a purple glow as the sun beamed directly onto her soft, scaled body. “Abigail. You should’ve called her yesterday, but you didn’t. The best you can do is today, so you shouldn’t keep waiting for tomorrow.” Shit. Muttering again. I reply with the answer I keep telling myself: “I’m not ready yet. Still gotta sort out what I’m gonna say.” I know I’ll never be ready or know what to say, but it usually gets people to leave the subject. But, as we know, Trish is not ‘usual people.’ “We’re not doing anything with the rest of today… Why not call her? Whaddaya say, Anon? Make it a sad, fucked-up, no-good day?” She teased, smiling, but I knew she was serious. This was a talk we had before: The best way to improve is to embrace what is difficult… …Hell no. Not in the mood today. “I’m really not feeling it right now. I want to relax today.” Her smile faded. “You’re never gonna ‘feel it,’ Anon.” She flipped the blinker on and quickly pulled into the parking lot of a random restaurant. “Trish… What are you doing?” “Anon, you’ve done a lot for me. You’ve helped my recovery; you give me a reason to keep going a lot of days. You’ve braved your own recovery very well, and I’m proud of you for it.” Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit. “So you understand how much I don’t want to do this— but this is an ultimatum. I’m sick of this shit. I’m sick of watching you procrastinate giving a woman closure. Her husband died protecting us. If you’re not gonna do it for yourself or Abigail, you need to do it for Farcy.” Finding a parking spot sufficiently far enough away from the crowd of cars, she threw the van in park, snatched up my phone from the center console, and unlocked it. Suddenly I regretted giving her my passcode. I froze and watched in horror as she navigated to Abigail’s contact, the green “Call” button visible on the screen, and tossed the phone into my lap and cut the engine. She turned in her seat to face me, revealing both sides of her purple face. “I’m free, you’re free, I’m right here, neither of us are on drugs, and we have all day. We’re going home soon, Anon. Call her now.” She referred to the enormous amounts of OxyContin and Norco we had been prescribed for our endless surgeries. It had been a little while since either of us had surgery, and my pain was largely relieved from my last surgery. “Trish— I’m not ready, I’m not recovered yet, I don’t know what I’d say, can’t we just—” “Start with ‘I’m sorry.” Trish cut me off and stared me down hard. She didn’t know the patented mom glare that Lucy had pulled on me back in high school, but she did have a ‘big sister’ glare that was even worse threatening than I remembered the mom glare to be. She continued: “You’ve ghosted her for seven fucking months, and you’re the last person to see her husband alive. She deserves way more than an ‘I’m sorry,’ but it’s a start. You need to start now. I won’t do it for you.” I noticed movement over Trish’s shoulder elsewhere in the parking lot. I looked and spotted a dino dropping out of a large red truck. The dino turned around and was suddenly wearing OCP camouflage. A plate carrier bulged from his front, and a folded radio antenna protruded up over his shoulder from his back. He hung his hands from the shoulder straps of his plate carrier and looked at me from across the parking lot. Thin, black feathers encircled his face. I shook my head and looked again, seeing instead a dark purple raptor in light green civilian clothes walking toward the entrance of the Long John Stego’s. “Fuck. Fuck, fine!” I picked up the phone in my left hand and hesitated, my heart not wanting to go through with it. I pressed the button and put the phone on speaker. The ‘ringing’ tone began to sound. Once. Twice. Please don’t pick up. Three times. I don’t want to leave a voicemail. After the fourth tone, the ringing stopped. Silence. Extra long voicemail message, perhaps? “...Anon?” Hearing her voice stopped my heart. She was so hopeful yet so afraid. “Hey… Abigail,” I responded wearily. “I’m sorry.” She didn’t respond, and I heard a sharp inhale. She’s trying not to cry. My heart broke all over again. I continued: “I— I should’ve called you sooner. I’m a coward, and I’m sorry.” Her crying became more audible through the phone. There was no background noise; she must have hidden in a closet or a bathroom. “Thank you,” she said between breaths. She sniffled again, “thank you for calling… I didn’t think you ever would.” “I just kept thinking I wasn’t ready. I was so stupid…” “Anon, please. I’m just happy you called. I’m sorry, too, for bothering you so much. I know I needed to give you time to heal, but… I would’ve visited you.” Another dagger ran through my heart and began to twist. “...Well, we’re still at Otter Reed…” “You and… Patricia? How is she?” I looked at Trish and saw she had taken on a somber look. She hadn’t called Abigail either. “Yeah, both of us. She’s doing really well. She doesn’t look the same, but she’s almost back to being able to eat normally again. She’s right here, actually.” “Ohh~” the woman fluttered in surprise. “That is wonderful news. May I speak to her?” I didn’t look to Trish for permission— this was happening, even if for no other reason than revenge for her forcing my hand in the first place. “Of course,” I said, handing the phone to Trish. She took it without protest. “Hi, Abigail!” She said in a cheery tone that contrasted her face. Trish followed up with an apology of her own for not calling sooner, and the two women exchanged pleasantries before Abigail began asking questions about Trish’s recovery. The simplest things: How the nurses are treating her, how the food is, how the beds are, has she visited the gardens yet (We had, they are breathtaking). It amazed me to watch this exchange take place. Abigail and Trish didn’t talk about Farcy or the deployment at all. Abigail didn’t even seem like she was talking to the last people to see her husband alive. She sounded like she was catching up with an old friend. One who had stayed in a hospital and whom she hadn’t seen for a while. Eventually, we learned that Abigail lived in Virginia. Near Otter Reed. “Can we meet?” I asked. She took very little time to consider: “Yes, I’d love that. At the cemetery? I need to go back, but I’ve been so busy with the kids…” …kids… I’m so sorry, Farcy. “Which cemetery?” Her reply came through the fuzzed filter of my phone speakers: “Arlington National.” … “Do it now; or later may become never.” ― Dean Graziosi … “SILENCE AND RESPECT,” the sign read simply. These grounds command respect in a way I haven’t experienced before. Football fields of uniform white marble headstones among green rolling hills and trees so big to make any human feel like an ant. The picturesque green grass under our feet serves as a sobering reminder of which side of the ground we’re on. Try as I might, there is no way to describe the feeling of reverence that came upon me in the Arlington National Cemetery. I had been limping at least half a mile. My legs burned with pain, and my cane began supporting more and more of my weight; I feared my cane would begin to make an imprint on the perfect, freshly watered morning grass. We had left significantly early to allow extra time for the walk, and so that we would hopefully arrive well before Abigail does. I walked with Trish and our guide between the headstones, and I read the epitaphs on each one as I passed: ‘LOVING HUSBAND AND FATHER.’ ‘OUR HERO.’ ‘BELOVED BY ALL.’ My legs protested louder, and my cane hand began to go numb. My body raged and threatened to collapse from under me. “Hey, maybe we should take a break, Anon,” Trish said, noticing my face contorting from pain with every other step. “I’m good,” I replied. With every headstone I read, I became more certain that I would press on if it meant that I must crawl on my arms. “Here we are.” Finally, our guide stopped and gestured at a headstone, not unlike the rest. farcyheadstoneviginette Trish approached the headstone with apprehension. She didn’t know how close she was allowed to get to her former mentor. She slowly knelt before it and sat in silence. I stood behind her for a moment before giving in to the pain and carefully lowering myself down to kneel next to her on her left. I looked at Trish and saw her holding it in. Her eyebrow would twitch— It was a tell I had noticed in the hospital and a secret I have carefully guarded since. Our guide left us. I put my hand on her back, offering her my comfort, and she looked over at me and accepted it, pulling me into an embrace. The familiar scent of Rosemary came upon me as she buried her face into my shoulder. I heard her begin to cry. I steeled myself as she shook with sobs, rubbing her back with my hand. I didn’t say anything. I let her take residence in my shoulder as long as she needed it. I felt it wouldn’t be my place to cry, as much as seeing my best friend cry made me want to follow. My best friend. Man, if high school Anon saw me now, he’d probably try to kill me. “What?” Trish said softly from inside my hug. Damn. What an awful thing to mutter. She pulled away from me enough to look at me, her arms still draped over my shoulders: “Why would he try to kill you?” I looked her in the face. I didn’t want to talk about this, but I had already opened the door. Avoiding it would make it worse. “Because you were right about me. I was a nihilistic asshole. Maybe not to Lucy, but I hated you, Trish. I was happy just leaving you in the past and taking Lucy for myself…” “Anon, stop talking,” she said. I was surprised. Almost offended. “Why?” “You were an asshole sometimes, sure, but I was not right about you.” She took on a tone of deathly seriousness. Her enormous purple eyes locked with mine but didn’t show the same emotion her voice had. Her eyes pleaded. “I was not right about you.” Her voice began to waver again: “You were right about me. I was controlling Lucy; I dominated her life, Reed’s too, and now they’re gone. And it’s my fault. And you… You gave me a second chance.” I noticed her tears begin to flow again from her left eye. For such a hardened woman, her waterworks were fully functional— At least on the side of her head where they were undamaged. Her jaw fell open again as she spoke: “I know I never would’ve done that for you.” She looked at me as if she had something heavy to release. Something that burdened her. I saw her vision defocus as she tried to press on. “Anon, I…” She cut herself off. She sighed as if her words were lost. She pulled me into another hug, resting her chin on my shoulder and holding my chest tightly. Her forceful embrace lightly constricted my breath. This hug felt different. It felt… Safe. I felt a new warmth inside my chest. It felt amazing, but— it made me want to cry at the same time. “I wasn’t right about you. Farcy was.” I suddenly remembered our reptilian friend buried six feet below us; laid to rest in the garden of heroes. He was my hero, and I knew he was Trish’s, too. I just wish I knew it when he still lived. Oh, Farcy… My mask broke, and Trish and I cried together in remembrance of our good friend to whom we owed a debt we couldn’t possibly repay. Soon enough we calmed down, and we spotted a woman being led by the same guide through the aisles of headstones. We hadn't seen Abigail before, but Trish and I both knew who she was. She was a bright orange raptor, who stood noticeably tall for a woman. Her colors reminded me of Naser’s bold orange patches. She wore a black dress with a large belt at her waist, and I noticed a single orange Tulip nestled in her hair that was kept in a very tight Army bun. She approached us, and we stood to receive her. “Good to meet you, Abigail,” I said, extending a hand to her. She didn’t respond to my offer of a handshake, approaching me closer and slowly wrapping her arms around me in a solemn hug. Her vanilla perfume filled my nose, and I suddenly was reminded that I need to choose a cologne. I probably smell like sweat. Her arms were soft, and her hug was very delicate for a dino. I returned her embrace, wrapping my arms around her thin frame and squeezing her gently. After an appropriately timed hug, she released me. “Thanks for meeting me, Anon.” She turned and hugged Trish, who was now appropriately prepared for the embrace and accepted it happily, despite the major height difference between the two women. They greeted each other, and after Trish clarified her preference of being called ‘Trish,’ Abigail opened up by asking about our time in the hospital. She was a remarkably polite woman, but I know this isn’t why we’re here. Should I be the one to steer the conversation to Farcy? Is it even polite to do that? I tried to look for an opening in the conversation, but Trish interjected and took the opportunity from me. “What about you— how are you holding up?” Trish asked at exactly the right moment. The bright orange raptor sighed before looking to the ground beneath us and lowering herself to sit on her ankles, moving to one side and getting comfortable. Trish and I sat with her, cross-legged on the grass. “It’s been… Hard.” The raptor’s solemn gaze was still averted to the ground as she looked for the right words to say— or rather, which words to start with. “It didn’t hit me, at first. The men came to my door, just like how I’d always feared they would, and they gave me exactly the news I was afraid to hear. ‘Killed in action.’ I thanked them, they left, and I… Went back to my day. Like there was nothing to fuss about. I told the kids over dinner and… My youngest didn’t understand, but my eight-year-old cried. He understood completely. Seeing my boy cry…” Her voice began to waver. “That’s when it hit me…” Her bottom lip began to quiver. She shook her beak slightly and took a sharp, deep breath to collect herself, and continued: “I didn’t want to get out of bed. My neighbor helped a ton, watched the kids, she brought us food, but… I didn’t get out of bed until the third day. And when I did… I was an awful mother. I didn’t want to be a mother anymore. I wanted to take back my whole life— to go back in time and shrink up until I didn’t exist. And I guess, in a way, I tried. I let others take care of my kids, who desperately needed me. I didn’t show up to work; I didn’t make my kids lunch before school anymore; I didn’t talk to any of my friends… I just shrank. ‘My life wasn’t supposed to go this way.” I looked up from the few blades of grass that had made their way into my fingers to see Abigail with a pained look, still not looking at us. Trish was silent, her face with a sympathetic look of its own whilst focused on Abigail. “But eventually, I figured out that’s not what life is about. That’s not what my life is about. I let my neighbor bring me to a women’s group with other widows, and… It made a big difference. These women were like me. They talked about the exact same things I was going through; It was like they were reading my mind. Eventually, I talked, and they just understood somehow. I can’t explain it. And seeing them doing so much better than I was, it finally clicked. I started working again, I started being there for my kids again, and now I’m here. It hasn’t been easy, but… It got a little better.” Silence. Neither of us responded. The silence grew heavier very, very quickly before Trish saved the day yet again: “I’m proud of you, Abigail.” The widowed raptor smiled and looked up at Trish. “Thank you. It… It helps to hear that.” A brief moment of silence crossed us, the gentle breeze a great comfort in the midday heat. “So, Anon…” Abigail shifted uncomfortably. “They gave me reports and stuff, but…” I knew the question she was going to ask. I wouldn’t make her ask it. It was high time I told her about who her husband was to us. “Oh, where to even start,” I pondered aloud. “Farcy was the best leader we ever had…” I started from the beginning: When I first laid eyes on him when he arrived at the FOB. We sat in the grass and talked, laughing over Farcy’s punishing me, crying with praise over his involvement in Trish and my reconciliation, and fondly recalling every memory of him in between. Eventually, we got to the day of the ambush— What the civilian media has dubbed the ‘Crossroads Incident,’ and I slowed down the timescale and began to speak with more detail. I included every detail I remembered, but then I began to lie. I lied to this widow. I told her stories about her husband that weren’t true. Battlefield heroics I couldn’t possibly have remembered, and that never occurred, in the gaps of the story I told Trish. Conversations that didn’t happen. Words of heroism that were not spoken. I guess I didn’t think the real story was enough, but I am the only one with the memory of what happened. There is no way I could be caught, and she deserves to remember her husband as a hero. He was one, only not with the fervor I described. I felt, though, she would have been disappointed if I had only told the real story. Civilians don’t understand the meaning behind actions in combat. They don’t understand the severity with which events occur. I felt like I had to embellish the story I told, or else I could not possibly portray Farcy’s character with justice. Even still, the reality didn’t escape me that in the crucial moment of comforting a grieving widow, I lied. I stopped after I told of him leaving the CCP. I didn’t include what happened to me after, or that I had called his name. She thanked me deeply and apologized for making me relive the incident. It was something I had done several times before. I felt like I should be used to it by now, but I wasn’t. She took notice of the tulip in her hair and pulled it out. After spinning the flower in her hand briefly, inspecting all of its sides, she rose and approached Farcy’s headstone. Delicately, she placed the tulip atop the stone, rested her fingers on the top of the smooth marble, and spoke a phrase in French— though without the accent Farcy used to have. “Je vous aimerai toujours.” I stepped up slowly to the headstone next to her, reached into my breast pocket, and pulled out the two quarters that waited inside. I placed them on the headstone next to the tulip. They clinked lightly against the marble stone and fell mute. The light breeze fluttered the petals of the tulip that Abigail had placed. She stood near the stone and watched my quarters for a moment. She knew what the coins meant: A quarter means the visitor was with the deceased when they died. It was a final act of respect towards our former leader and her former lover. She turned slowly to look at me, her eyes nearly level with mine. “We always expected he’d come home every time, but he still did his best to prepare us for this.” She suddenly put her right hand on my freshly shaven cheek and felt it. Her scaled hand was soft but cold. I didn’t make a move, allowing her to hold my face. “He always told us, ‘If ever I don’t come home… Look for me in the eyes of the men who do.” She gazed deeply into my eyes, searching for something she would recognize, and she found it. Her eyes began to glaze over, she she gazed at me with a loving but desperately pained smile. “I see him.” November 1st, 2022. Eleven months after the IED. I awoke with my hoodie under my head tucked between the seat and the window of the bus. I noticed a small spot of drool on it. I opened my eyes and looked around; lifting my head slightly and subtly wiping the corner of my mouth with my faithful hoodie. Out the window, I notice we’re in a city. A large city with enormous, leviathan mountains surrounding it in the distance, humbling in their size. I watched the signs of buildings as we rode past, eventually catching a “Salt Lake” on one of the business’s signs. Salt Lake City, Utah. We’re almost here: The next Gallimimus bus station. I peek over at Trish, not wanting to reveal that I’m awake, and I see her slouched back far into her seat, her knees in contact with the seat in front of us. Her arms are crossed, her head bowed, but she isn’t sleeping. She’s deep in thought. With the knowledge that I don’t have to fear waking her, I sit up in my chair and stretch, happy that we’ll soon be able to get off this bus. While they were miles ahead of what we were used to in the Army, these seats were starting to make both of us sore. It was our 10th hour of riding on this bus, with infrequent breaks at convenience stores for snacks and relief. Trish doesn’t make a move or mention my rise. I look at her with concern, and I gather she isn’t here. She’s back in Iraq. I gently touch my left hand on her shoulder, and she awakes from her daze and smiles softly once she sees me. She has to turn her head far to the right to see me with her left eye. “Almost here,” I tell her. She widens her eyes and looks past me into the city. “Salt Lake?” She dips her head down to get a better view of the tops of the gargantuan mountains in the distance. “Yeah. Pretty city. We're probably not gonna make it to Volcaldera until way after dark. Maybe tomorrow if our driver runs late.” The sun is already starting to droop in the early November evening, casting beautiful rays of sunlight over the mountains on a rare, sunny Utah winter’s day. After an agonizingly long sequence, the bus finally docked itself at the station, and we were released to our happy respite of standing on the curb, waiting for our bags to be removed from the underside of the bus. Next was an activity far too familiar to us: Hurry up and wait. We had about two hours before our last bus would arrive and bring us North, then towards the coast. We were frustrated to have to wait this long for our next bus, but it allowed us to have some dinner. I looked at restaurants nearby on Snoogle Maps and found a small bagel sandwich shop in walking distance that seemed to serve Herbie food. The hours passed, and we chatted about what we're gonna do when we were home. My plan, unsurprisingly, is to move in with Lucy. Trish is gonna check out her childhood home and see if her family is still there, and try to move in with them so she can go to school. We both want to take advantage of free college; Trish is just a little more excited about it than I am. I don't know what I'd study. I figured, if nothing else, I could study business. That's always useful. Tonight, though, we hoped to stay in a hotel in Volcaldera, as opposed to the several we've stayed in so far scattered across the United States. Just being in the city is exciting to us. It's been so long— what felt like lifetimes. I wonder if anybody will remember us. I wonder if anybody is still there… Stella, Reed, Rosa, Naser, Naomi, Spears, even. I don't think I left off on great terms with them all, but I'm excited to see them regardless. Time heals all wounds, as they say. … "There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love." — Washington Irving … This is it: The final stretch. Next stop: Volcaldera Bluffs. The buses got smaller and the passengers grew fewer as we approached, especially with how late it got into the night. I'm on the edge of my seat, unable to sleep on the shuttle. My mind is racing. The winding turns through the forest were disorienting, the shuttle's headlights only showing us a dim view of the trees that loomed over the bus in the front. If only we had made this trip during the day, I thought. It'd be much more scenic that way, for sure. I didn't care, though. I was so exhausted from the multiple-day-long bus trek that I would've taken any time of day or year; just the thought of sleeping in a bed tonight sounds wonderful. Much more though: the thought of being home. They say love is where the heart is— my heart never left. After I had lost track of how many winding turns we had taken, finally, a new bridge came into view; next to it was a mossy concrete sign fitted with faded cursive copper lettering: Welcome to Volcaldera Bluffs I could barely make out the words on the sign in the peripheral of the shuttle's dim headlights, but I caught them. I nudged Trish next to me and delivered the long-awaited news loud enough that her remaining ear would pick it up: "We're here." Her face lit up as she awoke from her dozing before being soon disappointed to learn that I meant "here" as in Volcaldera, not our hotel. Regardless, she sat next to me and stared out the window at the city as we drove through it. Memories came flooding back as we passed through the landmarks of the city: the City Hall, the fountain, the docks, and downtown. I even caught a glimpse of the edge of Lil' Tru down one of the side streets. The shops on the outskirts of downtown had their lights out, but some of their signs were still lit. I remembered walking these sidewalks with Lucy, Naser, and Naomi. I remembered Naomi asking one of these places if the band could play. I saw the bus stops I used to wait at and the road that led into the suburb where Lucy and Naser lived. There was so much I wanted to explore, but our shuttle took a new turn and slowed to a halt. We were here. End of the line. Trish and I could not get off the bus fast enough. The driver brought us our bags, and as always, I thanked the bus driver. The bus station was closed, and we were suddenly left outside in the dark and frigid cold in November without shelter. "I'll get us a cab rolling, wait one," I said to Trish. I opened Snoogle Maps and searched for Taxis, and several results came up. Trish spoke up: "Forget those. I know a guy." She pulled out her phone and began tapping away on it. "A guy who’s up this late?" I questioned, doubting her. She responded by talking into her phone: "Gallimimus bus station, you know it? Yeah, we're headed for the Bronto Inn. Sounds good. Bye." She ended the call and said snarkily to me: "Five minutes or less." "Well, alright then. How many kidneys does it cost?" Trish backhanded my arm playfully, and I suddenly heard the screech of tires in the distance, piercing the silence of the night, and a beat-up car rocketed in our direction. I backed up from the edge of the sidewalk, just in case. The car came to a screeching halt, blaring some trash music behind its rolled-up windows. I heard the music dampen heavily, and the passenger window rolled down. A familiar yellow dino with a bright orange jacket and red hair lowered his head and peered out at us: "You two's call a taxi?” END OF PART 1 In honor of the heroes who still walk atop the grass. You are not forgotten. Special thanks to my friend Red Leader; for the sacrifices you made for your brothers, and for living to tell about them.