So, I started to drive.
I cranked up the volume on the radio, drowning out my thoughts with Breaking Benjamin’s “Polyamorous.” I smacked my palm against the steering wheel to the beat of the song, pushing forth a nearly fabricated excitementtoward going home to force my mind away from Dumass and his final moments alive. I tried to think about Laura—her body, her lips, her eyes, her warmth. I tried to think about my sisters. I tried to think aboutanythingthat might make me feel less like it should’ve been me lying dead in a box somewhere. But every good thought to pass my mind soured and was replaced with something cold and sad.
His wife is pregnant.
He’ll never meet his unborn child.
Will his wife and kids be alone forever?
What will happen to them?
I’d trade places if I could.
I mattered in his life.
He hardly mattered in mine.
CLUNK!
POP!
“Fuck!”
I’d rolled right through a pothole that was apparently deeper than I’d initially realized. I turned down the music to listen to the telltale sound of a flattened tire flapping against asphalt and cursed again beneath my breath.
Shit.
I pulled to the side of the road, annoyed that something else, something far more irritating, was going to prolong my trip back home. I climbed out of the truck, prepared to do a quick tire change, when I noticed the wheel well. Furrowing my brow, I crouched to run a hand over the brand-new bump in the metal and shook my head when I saw the blown tire.
“Jesus,” I marveled in half awe, half anger.
I wiped a hand over my forehead and stood up, placing my hands on my hips as I swiveled my head this way and that, surveying the area. It wasn’t the ugliest part of Connecticut, but certainly not the prettiest. The surrounding businesses didn’t have the most welcoming of facades, but I wasn’t stranded in the middle of nowhere, and when I squinted my eyes and took note of the auto repair shop down the road, I quickly decided there must’ve been a Lord after all.
Or maybe Dumass was out there somewhere, looking out for a fellow soldier and friend.
I grabbed my wallet, keys, and cell phone from the cab, locked up, and walked along the shoulder of the busy road until I came to the mechanic’s. There was a neon sign readingOPENin the shop’s window, in case the open garage doors hadn’t been a good enough clue, and I breathed a sigh of relief when a dark-haired guy in oil-stained coveralls emerged from inside the garage.
“Hey, man. What’s up?” he asked, wiping his hands against the navy-blue fabric.
I glanced at the embroidered name on his chest—Luke. He was about my height, give or take an inch or two, and judging from his face, I’d put him somewhere near my age—younger probably. But while I’d been trained my entire life to keep myself neat and orderly, he wore an unkemptness that made me question if he even owned a hairbrush. It wasn’t a judgment as much as an observation, and I wondered what it’d be like to come to work looking so unruly.
“Hi,” I said. “I hit a pothole down the street—"
“Hell yeah,” he whispered triumphantly beneath his breath, punching the air. “I knew putting it there would bring in business.”
“What?”
He laughed and reached out to clap a hand against my arm. “I’m fucking with you, dude. My boss has been bitching to the town about the potholes on this street for the past six months.”
He removed his hand from my jacket and seemed to just now take in my outfit.
“Shit, should I be saluting you or something?”
“No, it’s all good,” I said absentmindedly, already estimating how long the repair would take.
I’m not getting back on the road until tomorrow … at the earliest. Shit, shit, shit.
“Well, thanks for your service, man. Did you just come back from, um …”
