 
# American Dream  
Book One

Z.M. Kage

PUBLISHED BY:

Blank Page LLC

Copyright © 2014

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be copied or reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are either a product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

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# ONE

Grand Rapids, Michigan.

June 12, 1989.

On his twelfth birthday, Jon Cole became fatherless.

Twelve years old. Too young to fully comprehend that his dad was gone, that he wasn't coming back. Too young to grieve, to cry along with everybody else in attendance.

And, apparently, too young to be trusted with the truth about what happened.

The details.

That had to be what everyone was whispering about, but whenever he got close enough to listen, the whispers went away.

That had to be why, when he wanted to open that shiny black box, because that's where his dad was, he was in there... eyes got wide and the only thing anyone could think of to say was NO.

Yeah... had to be because he was too young.

He focused on what he could remember. Tried to make sense of it.

His father died at work. That much he was sure of.

He'd left for work three mornings ago, the morning of Jon's special day, well before Jon had to wake up and get ready for school, but he took the time to do something before he took off, something he knew would bring a smile to his son's face.

Jon found it in his favorite box of cereal:

A birthday card with his dad's handwriting on it.

"Sorry I couldn't wish you Happy Birthday in person before you left for school this morning," the message inside read... "I would have loved to take the day off and let you stay home so we could spend the whole day together, doing whatever you want to do, but I couldn't make it happen. See you when I get home. Love You. Dad."

He never came home. Jon wondered if it was his fault.

He'd been to church with his family just about every Sunday for as long as his young mind could remember, but never before had Jon seen so many uniformed men in one place.

They approached him, one at a time, saying things like "your father was a great man, we're going to miss him" and "served with your old man, he was like a brother to me."

Jon recognized one of the uniforms. The brown one, the same one his dad wore to work every day. The other one, though, he'd never laid eyes on before. He liked it, liked it a lot... and he wondered why – on a day when he was supposed to feel sad – all he could think of was how he wanted to wear one of those snazzy uniforms someday.

The one with the big gold buttons down the jacket, the rectangles of color that stack together to form a brick on the left side of the chest (they're called 'ribbons,' he was told), and right beneath it, the two silver rifles that cross each other to make an "X" shape.

It was the coolest thing he'd ever seen.

The day Jon said goodbye to his father, the day he watched them lower that shiny black box into the earth... that was the day he made his mind up about what he'd do, just as soon as he was old enough.

# TWO

July 18, 2004.

Fifteen years later.

Just a routine traffic stop, that's all it was.

Well. As 'routine' as a brand new officer's first traffic stop can be.

Jon had been driving along, focusing on his own lane, oblivious to the oncoming traffic in the lane to his left when his radar detector roars to life with a high-pitched chirp.

Finally, some action, he thinks to himself as he hits the brakes and veers off the pavement and onto the shoulder so he can make as tight of a U-turn as possible to pursue the speeding motorist.

He catches up to the car, a 1980-something Buick Electra. He radios in the vehicle's license plate details, flicks on his overhead lights and waits for the vehicle in front of him to respond.

Two seconds. Nothing.

Five seconds. Nothing.

Just as Jon's about to turn on his siren and advance to the left side of the car he's pursuing – a more aggressive approach – the driver of the Buick notices him, slows down, and pulls over to the side of the road.

Relieved that the driver in front him isn't in the mood to play games and doesn't feel like running, Jon can't help but feel his heart rate increase. As he exits his vehicle, adjusts his brown uniform and begins walking up to the Buick, his mind wanders, vividly remembering the way his father had left this world.

It had been a traffic stop – probably a lot like this one.

Jon's dad had pulled over some random vehicle that was driving too fast, like he'd done hundreds of times before... and he'd approached that driver's vehicle on foot, like he'd done hundreds of times before.

There was no way his father could've known that the driver had a loaded revolver drawn and waiting for him long before he'd even exited his vehicle. And there wasn't a reason for his father to assume that the guy he pulled over that day was operating a vehicle with a suspended driver's license; that he was afraid of going to jail.

How afraid?

Afraid enough to not think twice about shooting Jon's father in the face and fleeing the scene just to keep himself from winding up behind bars.

His plan worked, initially... he got away from Jon's dad... but he was found, he was charged, and he was sentenced to twenty-five years in prison for pulling that trigger.

Four years after his dad's last traffic stop, when he was sixteen years old, Jon learned these things – he finally discovered the truth about how his dad had died, but by then it was already too late.

He couldn't avenge his father's death.

The coward that took so much from Jon, robbing him of the person he looked up to more than anyone else in the world... his hero... the worthless excuse of a man didn't even have the balls to face his sentence – his punishment for doing what he did.

Digging through old newspaper articles after he'd learned the truth, planning his revenge, searching for the exact whereabouts of his father's killer, Jon learned that he'd hung himself in his cell. Taken his own life.

Friends and family speculated that the shooter had realized what he'd done, had felt bad about it and wanted to punish himself for doing something so despicable.

Jon didn't buy it.

He was convinced that the man who murdered his father was afraid of what might happen to him if he decided to continue living his life. He believed he knew somebody would come for him... make him pay for what he'd done.

Fuming at the realization that he couldn't take an eye for an eye, he vowed to pick up the torch his dad dropped the day he made his last traffic stop. He promised himself that he'd follow in his dad's footsteps; do the work he died doing.

But if asked about it he'd likely admit that he'd had his mind made up long before he'd learned the truth – way before he wanted revenge, or even knew what it was.

Jon knew he'd earn the right to wear the uniforms his father had worn – both of them – the day of his funeral... it just hadn't made sense to him yet.

**********

He'd worked hard, finished school, and graduated with honors.

Where he went after high school wasn't even a question. He set his sights on law enforcement with no intention of taking them off... every 'you're a natural' and 'you were born for this' comment from his instructors a reaffirming sign that he was on the right path.

And now here he was, his first official day on the job, walking into an unknown and potentially dangerous situation... a situation eerily similar to what he'd been told his dad died doing... thoughts and questions taking over his mind.

What if they have a gun pulled out, loaded and waiting for me? Take no chances, get your gun out too. No, you can't do THAT (regulations and all)... besides, if they're harmless and you stick a gun in their face they'll probably file a police brutality complaint or something. That's just what you need on your first day.

You're blowing this out of proportion because your father died doing this. Relax and walk up there – c'mon, what are the odds you and your dad are going to meet your demise the EXACT same way? Yeah. Exactly. Suck it up, sport.

Jon approaches the stopped vehicle with a renewed sense of confidence, trusting his dad to watch over him, keep him safe... and finds the sweetest elderly woman in the driver's seat, barely tall enough to see over the wheel.

Jon lets out a sigh of relief as the beads of sweat on his forehead realize they made an appearance for no reason whatsoever, that they've wasted their time. "Clocked you doin' 69 in a 55, ma'am," he says... "License, registration and proof of insurance, please."

"Ooooh, was I going that fast?" She asks, surprised and confused. "Good golly, eighty-three years on God's green earth and still, I get a lead foot from time to time. I'm not under arrest, am I? I've never been in trouble with the law before, I don't really know how this works."

"Technically no, you're not under arrest... speeding isn't a serious enough offense for me to haul you away to jail, unless you've got a pile of tickets and violations you don't want to tell me about... but you were goin' quite a bit over the posted limit. Where are you headed this mornin' ma'am?" Jon asked.

"Church, I never miss church," the woman says... "Normally my daughter takes me but I felt like giving her the day off today. I wanted to let her sleep in a little bit and enjoy the rest of her weekend without the burden of getting me to my Sunday mass. Am I in a lot of trouble? Gosh, I sure hope not. My husband's probably turning over in his grave, seeing me pulled over like this. Years ago, MANY years ago, he was a handsome young officer of the law just like yourself. But he never told me anything, that's why I'm clueless as to how any of this works... and, honestly, a little scared."

"Oh is that right?" Jon replies... "Well I'll tell you this: I don't think you've got anything to be scared of. I'm going to take your information back to my car, just to confirm that you're telling me the truth and you're not some wanted fugitive or something," Jon says, smiling. "Don't you go runnin' off on me, or I'll definitely have a reason to keep you here."

The elderly churchgoer responds with a blank stare. She doesn't get the joke.

"I'm kidding!" Jon reassures her. "I'll be right back."

Jon returns to his police cruiser, slides into the driver's seat and punches the woman's information into his computer. Everything checks out; she's telling the truth.

His faith in humanity renewed just a little, Jon walks back to the elderly lady's Buick, hands her documents back to her, thanks her for her patience and wishes her an enjoyable morning at church.

If only you'd walked up on THIS traffic stop that day, dad... Jon says to himself, silently... then you'd still be with me, and I probably wouldn't be doing this – OR what I'm about to do.

**********

Jon wasn't just a cop. He was also in the Marine Reserves... the Infantry, more specifically... and he was set to deploy to Iraq in a few days. He'd worked his way up to the rank of Sergeant just four years after he'd enlisted... another way he was walking in the shadow his dad had left behind.

Same branch, same rank... the only difference between his dad's experience and his own experience was that Jon had the opportunity to actually put his infantry training to the test – something his dad told him he'd always wanted to do, but since there wasn't a conflict going on during his years as a Grunt, he never got the chance.

Jon was proud of that, proud for the privilege of experiencing something beyond what his dad had experienced – you'll be there with me, dad, you'll get to experience it too... don't you worry.

With the rank of Sergeant came the honor of leading Marines in combat. Not a lot of Marines... just a squad... and as a Squad Leader Jon was responsible for twelve brave souls. Twelve men he wouldn't – couldn't – let down.

Twelve men he'd do everything in his power to make sure they all got home safely.

Oddly enough, when the average about-to-be-deployed Marine was getting nervous about having to leave, Jon was getting excited. The only thing he wasn't jazzed about was leaving his high school sweetheart behind.

# THREE

Erin.

They'd lost their virginity to each other, and they'd been inseparable ever since. She belonged to him, he belonged to her. Jon didn't want to leave her, to spend so much time away from her (the longest they'd been apart since meeting and falling for each other was two days)... but this was his calling.

This was beyond himself, Erin, and anything either of them wanted. If anybody was meant to go over there and fight for the freedoms American citizens take for granted, it was Jon. He wasn't just born to be a police officer... he was born to be a Marine.

It's the night before Jon ships out, and he's decided to spend his last precious hours, minutes, and seconds before he has to leave with Erin. Nothing over the top, nothing fancy. They're at the movies, the drive in, the same drive in where they enjoyed their first date back in high school.

The previews start.

"Hey, wanna go grab something from the concession stand real quick?"

Erin declines.

"Oooh c'mon, it's a special occasion, let yourself stop watching your figure for ONE NIGHT." Jon pauses. He grins. "Please?"

Erin's lips form the most gorgeous smile; the smile Jon fell in love with, the smile he doesn't want to say goodbye to. Knowing he's getting to her, confident that she can't resist his charm, he lays it on extra thick. "Do it for me, Erin, do it for me!"

Laughing, Erin throws caution to the wind and lets herself have some junk food. Jon could always get her to laugh, and he had a real knack for helping her relax.

Walking away from the car, away from the screen, and toward the concession stand, Erin hears something familiar coming out of the drive-in speakers next to her. She stops. Jon takes another couple steps forward, like he doesn't know what she hears, like he doesn't know what's going on. Like he hasn't planned this.

"That sounds like my dad," Erin says, turning around and facing the giant movie screen. She gasps when she sees it – "it IS my dad!" she screams.

"Mr. Reed... sir..."

"Hey, that's you!" Erin shouts again, looking back at Jon briefly before re-gluing her eyes to the screen.

"...I love your daughter more than anything in this world. She's the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning and the last thing I think about when I go to bed at night. She's my everything. My sunrise, my sunset. My heart, my home. I want to spend the rest of my life with her... loving her, caring for her, growing old with her. And call me old fashioned, sir, but I don't feel like I can do that without your blessing..."

A hush falls over the crowd of parked cars surrounding Jon and Erin. It's quiet enough to hear a pin drop... and that's saying a lot, because they're standing on grass. People are paying attention now, they know something's up, they know that something magical is about to happen. Jon pulls the ring out of his pocket and gets down on one knee behind Erin. She doesn't notice.

"...so what do you say, Mr. Reed, is it cool with you if I ask Erin to be my wife?"

Erin sniffles uncontrollably as her hands cover her mouth. She watches her father turn, look straight into the camera – straight through the screen and straight into her heart as he says: "Erin, baby, it's cool with me. You might want to turn around now."

Erin turns... much slower than Jon thought she would. She's taking it all in, she can't believe this is happening right now. Finally she's facing Jon, staring into his eyes as tears of happiness fall from hers.

"YES!" Erin blurts out in between her joyful gasps.

Applause all around.

Horns honking in approval.

Couldn't have went smoother.

"You're so amazing, I love you," Erin says as Jon rises to his feet, hoists Erin into the air and spins her around... not wanting to ever put her down; not wanting to leave.

But he has to. In less than 12 hours.

Erin's excitement fades.

She's thrilled – beyond thrilled – but reality crashes into her; wakes her up.

"You're leaving tomorrow, Jon," she says. "And I'm very proud of you for doing what you're doing... you're my hero, babe. I know it's something that has to be done and I know you're very good at what you do... what I don't know is why you'd propose to me NOW. Why now?"

"Because I knew it'd be the last thing you'd expect tonight, my last night in the States. Because everything in that video was true – I want to spend the rest of my life with you, have a family with you and grow old with you. And because I want you to think about me when I'm overseas... I wanted to give you something to do. We've got a wedding to plan, babe," Jon explains, finishing with a wink.

"I'm going to miss you so much," Erin says, crying again. "If I lost you, if you didn't come back, I'd..."

"Don't do that," Jon interrupts. "Don't even talk like that. I'm coming back."

"But that's what everybody that goes over there says, and not everybody DOES come back," Erin argues, trying to get Jon to see just how scared she really is.

"I'm not everybody. I'm me. And unlike anybody who's ever gone over and not come back... I'm leaving with YOU in my heart," Jon reassures her, as certain of his safe return as he is about the sun rising in the East the next morning.

"Promise me you'll come back," Erin pleads... still crying, but much harder than before.

"I promise."

# FOUR

Fallujah, Iraq.

July 21, 2004

Plenty of Marines had deployed to Iraq and found themselves stationed at bases fancy enough and established enough to remind them of home – dorm-style rooms with air conditioning, a chow hall with a never-ending supply of hot, nourishing food, cooked on site, the luxury of taking a hot shower whenever – every day if you wanted to.

Jon wasn't fortunate enough to experience such luxuries.

The base his unit occupied – if a perimeter of sand-filled barriers topped with concertina wire wrapping around a small group of shoddily constructed Iraqi buildings qualifies as a 'base' – was in the rural area just outside the city of Fallujah, miles away from anything American.

Miles away from anything that felt safe.

Jon wasn't one to complain, but then again, maybe he'd have more to complain about if he was forced to live like the Marines he was responsible for. They didn't have as much living space as he did. He shared a room with the other two squad leaders in his platoon... while the twelve Marines in his squad had to divide a very similarly-sized room amongst themselves.

It wasn't a privilege he wanted, and it certainly wasn't a privilege he asked for. If he had it his way he'd be living with his men – getting to know them the best he could, showing them he wanted them to see him as more than just a superior, and more than someone to take orders from... he wanted each and every one of them to look at him and trust him like a best friend, maybe even an older brother.

OK, maybe not an older brother, because technically, though Jon was in charge of the squad... he wasn't the oldest member.

A leader has to feel like they've got something special to offer, though, and Jon felt like he did: police experience. He may have been a brand new police officer, he may not have had years of on-the-job experience... but the training he'd received on the road to becoming a cop, Jon felt like it crossed over very well to what him and his men were up against in Fallujah.

This wasn't World War Two.

The enemy didn't wear a uniform, an obvious sign that would let Jon and his fellow Marines know that Hey, this guy's not a friendly. Much like being a police officer back in the States, everybody NOT wearing Jon's uniform looked the same.

Everybody is an innocent civilian until they do something to prove otherwise, but at the same time, in order to stay alive Jon would have to look at everybody as a suspect, a potential threat, a wolf in sheep's clothing.

After making sure his boys are settled in and in relatively good spirits, Jon returns to his room to find the other two squad leaders sitting around, laughing and joking with each other. Jon wonders if they'd even taken the time to drop in on the Marines they were responsible for yet.

To see how they were doing, to bond with them.

Jon wasn't like the other two squad leaders. They were both the type that had no issue whatsoever with using their rank to make their lives easier.

Both of them were Sergeants, just like Jon.

Whenever something 'physical' had to be done – unloading ammo, food, water... anything that required manual labor from more than one Marine, Jon's fellow squad leaders would bark orders to their subordinates and then stand there with their arms crossed, watching the junior-ranking Marines do the dirty work.

Jon didn't see his rank – his position as squad leader – as a license to be lazy. When he went to pass an order down to his squad, he did the work with them, even if he was supposed to be somewhere else. Nothing was more important to him than the trust and respect of the men he was in charge of.

Another thing that set Jon apart from the other two squad leaders:

He didn't demand that his Marines address him as Sergeant all the damn time.

If a Marine higher-ranking than Jon was around... say, their Platoon Commander, Lieutenant Lopez... then yes, Jon's Marines addressed him by rank.

But among the other squad leaders, the other Sergeants, or any other time when it was just Jon and his Marines, he let them address him by his first name – something his Marines loved him for.

"We're all just people," Jon reminds his squad as he addresses them all as a group. Sitting cross-legged in a tight circle around him, they hang on his every word.

"Rank doesn't make the man," Jon continues. "I'm no better than any one of you, I've just been in a bit longer and I've got a stripe or two extra. Yes, the other squad leaders give me shit over it, and yes, our lovable Lieutenant has chewed my ass about it. More than once. I don't care. Bring it on.

"Knowing you guys as people, as men, beyond the uniform... feeling like you know me and trust me on that same level... is so much more important to me than doing things by the book – kissing ass to climb one step higher up the rank ladder. They won't demote me for treating you guys like human beings. And if they do, fuck them. They can have the rank. Unless I go down there's nobody else to lead this squad, so as for right now they're just going to have to let me run the show as I see fit."

Jon's differences as a leader paid off. In a big way, too. The other two squad leaders, whenever they were away from their men, would bitch and moan about having 'shitty Marines' in their squads.

They'd compare who was worse off, who got dealt the shittier hand. "Why don't you ever complain about your boys?" squad leader number two asks Jon one night in their fancy, spacious squad leader room. Squad leader number three, just as curious to hear how Jon answers this, throws down the book he's reading and leans in close.

"Because I've got nothing to complain about," Jon replies, laughing inside at the puzzled looks on his fellow squad leaders' faces.

# FIVE

Two months into deployment.

Everybody's settled in, the job is getting easier, and Jon's platoon has yet to suffer a casualty – a small miracle, considering how much time they'd spent outside the wire.

Foot patrols, convoys... they'd done it all, and done it well. The bond Jon shares with his Marines transcends anything related to the work they've been doing – battlefield trust was there, and there in spades, but it was more than that. They were a family.

**********

Four months in.

They're more than halfway done already. Time is passing by much faster than Jon had anticipated. It'd been a couple weeks since he'd heard from Erin, but he wasn't worried about it. All he had to do to be with her was think about her – take a second and bring her image into his mind – and it was something he did often.

Jon's squad had been standing post as base security for almost a week. It was their turn again, and always the most relaxing part of their rotation. Four of his Marines were keeping an eye on things at the moment, and Jon was making his rounds, going from post to post to check on his boys, to see how they were doing and see if they needed anything.

Jon climbs the ladder to check on Private First Class Mark Moore, and as soon as he's in his post, as soon as he's standing behind him, he knows something is wrong. He can feel it.

How does he know? Because PFC Moore isn't doing what he's supposed to be doing – scanning the horizon for threats; anything out of the ordinary. It was very out of character for him, as Moore had yet to drop the ball. He'd taken the job seriously and been nothing but an exemplary Marine as far as Jon was concerned.

Now, Moore looks defeated. He's holding a letter in his hands and staring down at the words as if looking at them long enough and hard enough will somehow make the message change – make the ink on the page morph into something else.

Jon says his name in an attempt to get his attention. Nothing.

Moore continues to stare, focusing so hard he's zoning out.

Jon says his name again, louder this time.

There we go, a sign of life.

"Oh, uh, hey Sergeant... sorry about that, didn't know you were there, must've spaced out for a second," Moore says, stuffing the piece of paper into his cargo pocket as if Jon hadn't already seen him staring at it.

"I thought I told you not to call me that," Jon says back.

"Shit, I forgot... Jon, I meant Jon. I can't believe I keep forgetting that... that I can call you by name and not rank – it's so ingrained in us since boot camp, ya know?" Moore says. "What's happenin' Jon, what can I do for ya?" he asks.

"Yeah I know," Jon replies... "the whole first name thing can take some getting used to. I'll let you skate for now, but it sure as hell better not happen again! Joking, Moore, I'm joking. What's happenin? Oh just doin' my thing, thought I'd come by and check on you. What you can do for me is pull that letter back out of your pocket... the one you were staring at when I got here."

Moore looks at his feet, almost ashamedly, like he's not sure if he wants Jon to see it.

"Unless of course you'd rather not show it to me," Jon says. "I mean I'm not going to give you a direct order or anything. You know I'm not like that. Your business is your business."

Moore looks at Jon, then through the bulletproof class – his window to the outside world, his shield – lost in thought, struggling to decide what to do.

"Let me know if you need anything. I'm here for ya, Moore," Jon says, turning around, getting ready to leave.

"Jon?" Moore says before Jon starts his return trip down the ladder.

"Yes?" Jon responds, relieved for the chance to get to the bottom of what's bothering him and touched that he doesn't want him to leave just yet.

"Here," Moore says, handing Jon the piece of paper. "It's a letter, from my girl back home."

"I had a feeling," Jon says... "Mind if I read it?"

"Knock yourself out."

Jon starts reading.

# SIX

"Your girl's pregnant? That's fantastic!" Jon says, excited and proud that one of his Marines is going to be a father.

"Keep reading," Moore says, devoid of all emotion, still in shock.

Jon returns his eyes to the page, scanning quickly, processing the information as fast as he can. "Jesus. Unbelievable."

"Right?!?! ... Talk about a fuckin' gut punch, man. So she's bangin' this other guy. That'd be bad enough, but nope... can't stop there – SHE'S CARRYING HIS BABY. And we've been over here, what, just over four months now?"

"Yup, just passed the four month mark. We're over halfway done," Jon confirms.

"Four fucking months. So let's figure this shit out. Factoring in the two weeks or so it takes for mail to get from the States to here, and assuming she JUST found out she was pregnant... that means that she got knocked up somewhere in month two or three. And who knows how long she'd been fuckin' this guy before that," Moore fumes, pausing to take a breath, fighting to maintain control over himself. "Shit, she could've been in bed with this jackass the same week we shipped out!"

"Calm down," Jon says as reassuringly as he can manage. It's all he could think of.

"Calm... down?!?! How the HELL can I calm down? She was my everything, man... yeah we'd only been together for the few months leading up to this deployment, but what I felt for her... love is the only way to describe it. She was scared to death of me coming over here; she didn't want me to leave. Do you think I wanted to leave? Fuck no I didn't... but I committed to doing this before I met her, before I fell for her. Falling for her gave me a reason to fight, to be a man and follow through, to keep my word. Thinking about her, dreaming of going back home to her, it's given me strength every day we've been in this shit-hole. And now that's gone. I don't know what I'm going to do," Moore says.

"How old are you again, Moore? Nineteen, right?"

"Yeah, I'm nineteen. And for the love of God, please spare me the 'you're too young to know what love is' speech."

"Ooooh no, I wasn't goin' there – that's something parents would say. And no matter how much you'd like it to be true... I'm not your daddy."

Jon's attempt at humor hits home as Moore smiles from ear to ear.

"Hey, now we're getting somewhere!" Jon says. And with that, he knows that Private First Class Mark Moore is going to be just fine.

"Can I ask you a question, Jon?"

"Of course you can. Fire away."

"You got a girl back home?"

"I sure do... her name's Erin. I proposed to her the night before we shipped out."

"Get outta here! You didn't!"

"I did."

"Judging by that smirk on your face I'm assuming she said yes?"

"She did. We're getting married as soon as I'm outta here and settled in back home."

"Do you trust her? I mean, are you worried about her messing around when we're over here?"

"I'm not worried at all. I trust her completely. We've been together for quite awhile. Since high school, actually. I know my Erin."

"You're one lucky bastard. Damn, man... I'd give anything to be you."

"We've got so much in common it's scary, Moore. Look, I gotta get some rack time before we step off tomorrow morning... but I can't head out without saying this..."

"What's that?" Moore asks.

"...what you said earlier, about your 'strength' being gone? Lock that shit up. If you focus on her, if you think about her, you're gonna get yourself killed. I don't wanna see anything happen to you, Moore... you're an outstanding Marine and it's an honor to serve beside you. Forget about her. Focus on your brothers. Draw strength from us. Clear?"

"Clear."

"Oh and one more thing: rack out as soon as your relief shows up. Big day tomorrow."

"You got it. I appreciate the talk, Sergeant, I really do. Thanks."

"Anytime, brother."

# SEVEN

Jon descends the ladder and starts back for his room, feeling fantastic about his brief exchange with Private First Class Moore. The kid wasn't human. Eyes of an eagle, ears of a bat, PFC Moore was the 'point man' Jon could count on most.

Most Marines that age are terrified of walking out in front during a foot patrol, of being so exposed, but not Moore. He owned that lead position in the formation and, more often than not, heard noises and saw movement before anybody else in the squad.

He hadn't gotten tunnel vision. Not yet.

He'd been calm. So far.

But how much of Moore's calmness, his coolness, stemmed from the strength he'd been drawing from his (now) ex-girlfriend? That's what worried Jon as he made his way back to his living quarters.

Halfway there, Jon meets one of his three fire team leaders, Corporal Stone, in passing. "Piece of mail came for you today, Sergeant... I put it on your rack for ya."

"Care package?"

"Nah, envelope."

"Your team all set for the op tomorrow?"

"We're good to go, Sarge."

"Excellent. Tell your fellow team leaders to get their boys tucked in ASAP. Big day ahead of us."

"Will do."

Jon quickens his pace. He's got a reason to walk fast.

Up the hill, around the corner, through his door, and there it is, sitting all by itself – his only piece of mail: a letter from Erin.

Dang, she really soaked this one, Jon thinks to himself. He could smell her perfume emanating off it without bringing it anywhere near his nose. He loved it when she did that. It did, however, make him miss her even more. He ached for her.

Jon pinches the envelope with both thumbs and index fingers, gauging its weight and comparing it to other pieces she'd sent. It's heavier. He can feel something in there, too... two chunks of something hard, but he doesn't have the energy to guess what it might be.

Not tonight.

Can't be more than one page in here, he thinks to himself. Very unlike Erin. Weird.

Hard as it is to resist the urge to tear into it right then and there, Jon decides to wait until morning. He wants something to look forward to right after he wakes up. He carefully places Erin's scented message under his pillow, lies down, and stares into his Kevlar helmet...

...like he's done every single night since he's been here. It's become a ritual; the last thing he looks at before going to sleep.

Behind the webbing inside his helmet rests Jon's favorite picture of Erin... the one with her posing for the camera in her sexy black bikini. She'd had highlights then, her hair pulled back into a ponytail... but a few defiant strands never wanted to cooperate.

Whenever she'd put her hair up the tiniest sliver of bangs refused to play along and decided to, instead, hang down in front of her forehead.

Infuriating for Erin... adorable to Jon.

"We're over halfway there, babe," Jon whispers, still staring at the photo... loud enough to hear himself speak, but quiet enough to keep from disturbing the other two squad leaders. "I miss you, I love you, and I can't wait to see you again. I'll open your letter first thing in the morning, I promise!"

To finalize the ritual, Jon kisses his right index finger, touches Erin's lips, and returns his helmet to its proper resting place.

More than seven thousand miles away, Erin isn't looking at a picture of Jon. She's not even thinking about him.

# EIGHT

"Do you take this man..."

"I do."

"Let's go, Sergeant Cole, get up."

"Do you take this woman..."

"I do."

"Hey! Wake up!"

"I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the..."

"Damn it, WE GOTTA GO!!!" It's Corporal Stone – frantic as all hell.

Jon's overslept.

"Ugh... no. No... can't be morning already. How much time do I have, Stone?"

"We step off in ten mikes. Moore isn't acting right, Sarge. I tried talking to him... but he won't tell me what's up. Could you check on him before we head out? I'm really worried about him."

"I think I know what's goin' on... yeah, I'll talk to him. Thanks for letting me know. And for waking me up."

"You got it Sarge. Hey, you're always up and outta the rack before me... what's the deal, you couldn't sleep last night or what?"

"Oh, it was just one of those nights... took me a little while to drift off. I'll see you out there, Stone."

Jon sits up, glad that he hadn't taken the time to get undressed before crashing the night before. He hadn't even taken his boots off. Good thing, too...

Ten minutes. Ten minutes to round up all his gear, check on Moore, and... and... he feels like he's forgetting something but he can't put his finger on it...

...and then like a slap across the face it hits him: the letter! The message from Erin he'd stashed under his pillow the night before. Time isn't on his side, he's got none to waste, but if he hurries he can read her one page letter before he has to go.

Excited, pulse climbing higher, he retrieves the letter from its hiding place, anxious to digest the words his love has sent from afar.

A five year old on Christmas morning, Jon rips into the envelope, unfolds the single, lonely page... and a level of pain he didn't even know existed permeates every cell of his body.

Who would've thought it'd take less than ten words to turn his entire life upside down?

\----------------------

Jon,

Wedding's off.

Have a nice life.

~ Erin

\----------------------

Taped to the page, below Erin's handwriting, is the engagement ring he'd given her... sawed in half... an obvious symbol of how what once was whole is now broken.

Beyond repair.

Jon is frozen. He can't move. He can't breathe. What did he do to deserve this?

Tears materialize out of nowhere in the corners of his eyes as he stares at the page. Through the page. He turns his attention to his right hand – home of the finger he'd used to plant kisses on Erin's picture every night since leaving her – and wills it to move, squeeze... crush.

Summoning every ounce of self control he can muster to keep himself from sobbing uncontrollably, Jon reduces the letter to a paper ball of misery and chucks it across his room.

He grabs his flak jacket, slings it overhead, and lets the bulk crash down onto his shoulders. He fastens the Velcro straps at the sides; aggressively, angrily. He picks up his rifle, reaches for his Kevlar... but he pauses briefly before putting it on.

"Wait," he says to himself aloud, eyes fixing on Erin's bikini-clad photo. "You're not coming with me today. Ever again. You're going to burn."

He storms across the room to an already-opened, half-eaten MRE and fishes out the book of matches that comes in every 'Meal, Ready to Eat.' Being a non-smoker himself, he's finally got a use for the damn things. How ironic.

He can't set Erin ablaze with one hand – not with matches. He needs both hands free. Pinching the photo between his teeth and clamping down hard, he separates one fire stick from the other nineteen. Moving with a purpose he strikes, watches it burn, inhales the resulting fumes and uses his one miniature torch to ignite the entire book.

Holding his fire in one hand and taking Erin out of his mouth with the other, he buries her in heat and gets all the closure he's going to get in that moment, watching the flame swallow her whole. "Goodbye, Erin."

**********

Jon fixes his empty Kevlar helmet to his head, clips the strap beneath his chin, leaves Erin's remains smoldering on his dirt floor and storms out the door in search of Private First Class Moore.

The rest of his squad is geared up out in front of the building they all call home. They're ready to go... just waiting on their leader. Jon spots the grief-stricken PFC off to the side, separated, alone, and sitting on a stack of sand bags, his head in his hands.

He'd done his best to comfort him the day before, trying to imagine what he must've been feeling... but he doesn't have to imagine anymore.

They're heartbreak buddies.

Don't show him your pain, be strong for your Marines, Jon thinks to himself as he walks over to him.

"How ya doin', Moore?" Jon asks, taking a knee in front of him. "Sleep OK last night? You locked on for today? Got your head in the game?"

"Oh, hey Sergeant," Moore replies, forgetting again that he's welcome to address him by first name. "Slept like shit last night; hardly at all. Can't get her outta my head, so no, I'd say my head's about as far OUT of the 'game' as it's been since we've been here."

Jon looks to his left and starts walking. "Follow me, Moore. Over here."

Moore joins Jon just around the corner of the building so they can have a word in private.

"Have you told any of the other guys about what happened with your girlfriend? Or is that just between us so far?" Jon asks.

"Nope, just you, Sergeant. You're the only one I felt like I could trust with it."

"Alright, cool," Jon replies, knowing just what he has to say to get his point man's head in a better place before they start their patrol. "Guess what, Moore? I'm with you."

"You're with me? What do you mean?"

"I mean you're not the only one in emotional hell right now – I'm with you."

"Why? What happened?"

"Remember Erin? ...my high school sweetheart, my fiancé, who I was beyond positive that I 'knew? She mailed me a letter. It got here yesterday... I found it on my rack last night after I'd finished talking to you. And I waited until this morning... as in, literally, three minutes ago... to read it. After reading I had no choice but to torch the only photo I had of her. Great way to start a day, huh?"

"So the wedding's off?"

"Yeah. That's actually all the letter said. Oh, wait, 'have a nice life' was in there, too."

"Are you kidding me? I don't even know what to say, Sergeant."

"I do. Look, Moore... you're the only person I've told about this – the only person I'm going to tell." Jon pauses to collect his thoughts. "Life goes on."

"Kinda cliché, don't you think?"

"It's a cliché that happens to be true. What we're going through... it hurts. Hurts like hell. We can either let that pain control us, and put not only our own lives, but the entire squad at risk... or we can take a deep breath, shove that pain aside, and deal with it later."

Moore looks like he's about to say something, but Jon's not done.

"The women we thought we knew, thought we could trust... they don't deserve us. So let's close the book on this. Let's do what we've been trained to do and not let these ungrateful bitches take up one ounce of our head-space. You with me?"

"Roger that, Sergeant. I'm with you... don't know what I'd do without you."

"Outstanding. You ready to head out?"

"I'm ready."

"You're SURE..."

"I'm sure."

"Mags full?"

"Check."

"Water topped off?"

"Check."

"How many frags you got?"

"Two."

"Smokes?"

"Two. One purple, one yellow."

"Well alright then. Show me your war face and we're good to go," Jon says, his serious expression turning into a shit-eating grin. "Kidding, kidding... I love me some classic 80s war movie quotes, though!"

"Funny, Sergeant... REAL funny," Moore replies, laughing right along with him.

"There's that smile. Let's move."

# NINE

Jon's squad assembles into their tactical column formation. No orders need to be given; nobody needs to be told where they're supposed to be or what they have to do. Like a basketball team that's been playing together for years, everyone knows their place and can move and act as one, without speaking.

Moore takes the lead position, as usual. Point main; tip of the spear.

If Jon could trade places with him, he would, but rank and job description prohibit such a thing. As squad leader, per their training, he's got to walk in the middle of the patrol order, sandwiched between his three fire teams; one fire team in front of him, two fire teams behind him.

He was supposed to lead from the front without ever being in front. As he walks through the acres of farmland that stand between his squad and the small cluster of houses up ahead, Jon ponders how that's even possible.

He can't ignore the landscape, either: acres upon acres of green. More than four months spent walking around on Iraqi soil and he still can't believe what he's looking at. It definitely was not what he pictured when he was back in the States imagining and anticipating the experience of a combat deployment down to the last, intricate detail.

As they get closer to the buildings, Jon realizes they're not all houses. If what they're about to walk through could be classified as a village, it's the most civilized-looking village they'd yet to encounter.

They'd seen a lot of them, and never had there been so many two-story and three-story buildings so close together. This was more like a miniature town, something out of a Western movie... two groups of structures pinching a narrow dirt path between them.

Corporal Stone, Private First Class Moore's fire team leader, three positions ahead of Jon in the patrol formation and walking right behind Moore, gets Jon's attention by whispering something into his right ear. "Sergeant, you there? Can you hear me?"

Everything had been so quiet up until then that Jon had almost forgotten he was even wearing a radio headset – his direct line of communication with his three fire team leaders. Momentarily startled by the transmission, Jon finds the talk button with his left hand and responds. "I'm here, Stone, what's up?"

"Moore doesn't look right, Sarge... he's turning around to look behind him WAY too often."

"I've noticed that, too."

"I don't feel good about him being in front today. He knows how to act up there, he knows he should be focusing on what's in front of him, he knows we've got his back. He's looked back at me five times in the last minute. Something's off. You talked to him, didn't you?"

"I did," Jon confirms. "He's fine."

"He doesn't look fine."

"He's fine, Stone. I wouldn't have let him walk point today if I wasn't sure of it," Jon lied. "Just... keep an eye on him. And stay alert up there. If I was an Iraqi sniper and felt like picking off a Marine I'd do it from an elevated position, and I'd have plenty to choose from up ahead."

"Roger that, Sergeant, I'll watch him. We goin' right up the middle?"

"Affirmative. Right up the middle."

The conversation was over. Neither Jon nor Corporal Brian Stone came out and said so – it was understood. They had to be quiet now. They were right on top of the entrance to this town, village, whatever the hell it was... and as deserted and quiet as it was, as it seemed... they intuitively knew the smart play was to stop talking and start listening.

Start watching for potential threats.

Moore's patrol behavior changed as soon as they transitioned from the wide open farmland to the path separating the two groups of buildings, much to Stone's relief. He was like a different Marine... totally focused on what lay ahead of him, weapon up, ready to engage...

...swiveling back and forth, not letting himself focus on the same spot for too long so he could scan as many potential firing positions as possible, just like he'd been trained.

BANG!

Thirty feet above ground, a single bullet explodes through an open window, closes the gap between both sides of the war at an alarming rate and rips through Marine flesh.

Moore had overlooked one of the third story windows; he'd passed right by it without even a second of hesitation. But he never had a reason to hesitate. He couldn't have seen the shooter, even if he'd known exactly where he'd be.

This guy was experienced... experienced enough to know better than to stick his rifle barrel out the window – to give his position away and let the enemy know he was there before he'd even had a chance to pull the trigger.

And now he was on the move, repositioning himself as quickly as he could. He was certain that at least one of the Americans below had seen where the shot had come from, so he wasn't going to just sit there and wait to be found.

No, he had a plan.

He would find another suitable firing position, and take down another Marine.

One wasn't enough.

# TEN

"Get down! Take cover!"

Jon reflexively screams these commands at the top of his lungs, but he doesn't have to. The instant the deafening gunshot pierces the silence and echoes off the surrounding buildings, everybody in the squad dives off the beaten path and finds cover.

Everybody except Moore, who remains out in the open.

Exposed, vulnerable, helpless.

"Sergeant!!! Moore's been hit!!!" Corporal Stone shrieks like a banshee, being as loud as he can to guarantee Jon gets the bad news on the other side of the street.

"Talk to me on this," Jon whispers through the radio headsets that connect them. "We don't know how many we're up against, here. Let's not give away our positions unless we absolutely have to."

Stone wonders why that hadn't crossed his mind, then repeats what he'd already said, as if Jon hadn't heard him the first time. "Moore's hit, Sergeant."

"I know he is."

"Is he still alive?"

Jon carefully pokes his head around the three-foot-high cinderblock wall he'd taken cover behind and forces himself to look at what he's done. He'd let Moore walk in front today. This was his fault.

"He's not moving, Stone. I see blood on the ground by his head and shoulders. Wait..." Jon pauses to listen closely. "Do you hear that?"

"I can't hear shit, Sergeant... ears are still ringing from the shot. Feels like it went off right next to my head. What do you hear?"

"A wheezing sound. I think it's Moore. I think he's still alive."

"I don't get it. If he's still alive, why hasn't the sniper shot him again?"

Jon considers the possibilities and can only come up with two likely scenarios.

"Well, Moore hasn't moved an inch since he went down. So either the shooter is assuming he's dead, or he can hear him wheezing just like I can and he's using Moore as bait to line up another target."

"Fuck it, he can shoot at me if he wants to... we can't just leave Moore out in the open like this. I'm goin' out there to get him," Stone says, standing up out of his concealed position.

"Like hell you are!" Jon fires back. "Get your ass back down!"

Angry inside that he's got too much respect for Jon to openly disobey a direct order from him, Stone complies with his squad leader's request.

Relieved to see his distraught fire team leader fight the adrenaline rush going on inside of him just enough to keep from doing something stupid, Jon pinches his talk button.

"Alright, Corporal Stone, this is how it's gonna play out. I know you want to be the one to go out and help Moore, and I respect the hell out of you for it, but I can't let you. You're twice as far from his body as I am. All I've gotta do is sprint about ten yards or so, grab him by the collar of his flak jacket, and drag him another ten yards to the safe side of this wall I'm hiding behind.

"Watch the windows, Brian. Don't watch me. I can get to Moore without any trouble, but when I start dragging him, I'm gonna slow down. Way down. I'll be an easy target. Keep your eyes peeled for a muzzle-flash and sling a 40mm through whatever window lights up. Your M-203 is locked and loaded, right?"

Stone unlocks the barrel of the M-203 grenade launcher attached to his M-16 just enough to confirm that he's got a 40mm grenade in the chamber. "I've got one ready to fly, Sergeant. Count me down when you're ready. And good luck!"

Jon takes a deep breath, collects his thoughts, and gets ready to run. "I make my own luck, Brian. Three... two... one."

Time slows down.

Vision, sharpened; sounds, muffled.

He's up, he's moving.

BANG!

Jon doesn't even feel the sniper's second bullet graze his right shoulder on the way to Moore's body, still motionless, the smattering of blood on the ground next to his head now a puddle.

But Stone saw the flash. Plain as day. It was so glaringly obvious he can't believe he didn't see the first one. Wasting no time he pops off his loaded grenade, but it comes up short – well short – and KA-BOOM!!!... It explodes at the second story level, one floor below its intended landing spot.

"FUCK!!!" Stone screams at himself as he scrambles to adjust his sights for the proper yardage – the yardage he needs to hit his mark, and get another grenade chambered and ready to launch before the sniper can squeeze off another round.

Jon makes it to Moore, shoves his slung rifle off to the side and clamps on to Moore's flak jacket with both hands, totally unaware that he's already been hit once. Moore won't be of any help; he's dead weight; it's all up to Jon to get him out of there.

But his eyes are open. He's still breathing, still wheezing. "Can you talk?" Jon asks as he starts dragging him, inching him back in the direction he'd come from as fast as his backward-shuffling movement will allow.

No response.

"Hold on, Moore," Jon pleads between labored breaths. "You just hold on. You're doin' great, you're gonna be fine, I'm getting you out of..."

BANG!

A ripping sensation on the left side of Jon's body. He topples over and crashes into the dirt, unable to drag, unable to stand... his entire midsection alive with a level of agony so severe he can't even vocalize it. He can't moan, can't groan; can't make a sound.

In this moment he'd give anything to release some of this pain, just a little, by producing noise, but it's clenching him so hard and so tight, twisting and torturing him from the inside out as he admires the pretty blue sky; the puffy, cotton-like clouds.

KA-BOOM!

A thud. Something hitting the ground. The distant hissing of an activated smoke grenade. Footsteps. Someone running. Quiet, at first... but getting louder.

And louder.

A blurry silhouette hovering over Jon, eclipsing his view of the heavens.

"I got him, Sergeant!" Corporal Brian Stone exclaims, catching his breath. "I smoked the fucker." He looks at the red cloud billowing off to his right, then back at Jon. "Popped smoke and radioed in what happened... bird's on the way."

Eyelids... heavy. Too heavy. Must... close...

"Sergeant..."

Closing the blinds... turning off the lights...

"SERGEANT..."

Floating away...

"Damn it, don't do this, Sergeant. Not now..."

Letting go...

"Sergeant! Sergeant! Wake up! WAKE... UP!!!"

# ELEVEN

Jon should've seen this coming.

Not Erin's change of heart, not getting wounded... no, what he should've been able to predict, if he survived the trip, was that he'd wake up in just as much pain as he was experiencing when he lost consciousness.

But hey, at least he can breathe now.

His eyes creep open to an annoying beeping noise off to his left, not far away at all, and distant voices from across the room – a news report on TV, by the sounds of it.

TV!

He hadn't watched television in months. Not that he particularly enjoyed watching news, but it could only mean one thing: that he wasn't in Iraq anymore.

And that was good news... unlike the report he woke up to. Another natural disaster, something about a tsunami in Asia, the anchor going on and on about how horrible it was, how many innocent people had lost their lives.

"Well, at least the news hasn't changed," Jon says to an empty hospital room. "Still bad, still negative, still inspiring fear in people halfway across the globe."

Inches from his right hand sits a remote. On that remote is one lonely, red button... what Jon can only assume is a call button to get a nurse's attention. He reaches for it, grabs it and presses the button, but even that makes him cringe beyond belief.

A tidal wave of a thousand stabbings pulsate throughout his torso. As the ripple finally begins to subside, Jon catches his breath and wonders just how badly he's been hurt.

He doesn't have to wonder for very long.

"Oh, Sergeant Cole, so glad you're with us again," an attractive young nurse says with a smile after opening the door to Jon's room and approaching his bed. "My name is Wendy... how are you feeling?"

"Like I've been hit by a bus, and, after being hit by said bus, the driver threw it in reverse and hit me again," Jon groans, shifting his weight on the bed, searching for a more comfortable position.

Wendy chuckles. "Well it's good to see that you've still got a sense of humor."

"Where am I? What day is it? What happened to me?" Jon is full of questions.

"You're in Germany, Sergeant Cole. Today's date is December 10, 2004. You don't remember what happened?"

"I'm in... GERMANY?? You took me away from my Marines?!?!"

Wendy doesn't want his heart rate to climb too high, so she tries to cut him off before he gets any more agitated. "Yes, Sergeant, you're in Germany. I – emphasis on 'I' – didn't take you anywhere. You were airlifted here, to this hospital, two weeks ago today."

Calming down a little, getting his breathing under control, Jon's in a much better place to continue the conversation. "Two weeks ago, huh? And I'm just now waking up. So you're telling me I slept for fourteen consecutive days?"

"It wasn't a natural sleep, Sergeant; we had to sedate you, keep you unconscious to give your body the best possible chance of recovering from the injuries you sustained. You were hurt very, very badly," Wendy says, shaking her head back and forth like she'd never seen anything like it. "It's a miracle you survived the operation."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa..." Jon jumps in. "What operation?"

The second the words leave his mouth the door to his room swings open again and another figure enters. An older, slightly overweight man in a white lab coat, a clipboard in his hand and a twinkle in his eye. Jon can't figure out why this guy seems happy to be here.

"Sergeant, this is Dr. Flynn," Wendy says with a quick nod in his direction. "He's the one who operated on you and he's much more qualified to answer any questions you may have about the operation; about what happened to you."

Having introduced the man who apparently has all the answers, Wendy smiles at Jon one more time and exits the room without another word.

"Sergeant Cole, so glad you're with us again," Flynn begins.

"That's the second time I've heard that today, Doc. Wendy said the same thing when she first walked in here. Exact same words, exact same way. You guys workin' off a script or something? Am I on a new reality TV show I haven't heard of yet?"

Dr. Flynn didn't like seeing men in situations like Jon's, didn't think it was funny at all, but he made himself laugh anyway. It was part of his job, and in his experience he'd concluded that a smartass attitude goes a long way toward recovery – especially with Marines. "No scripts here, Sergeant. And no, you're not on TV."

"So you're the one who 'operated' on me. Is that right?"

"That's correct," Flynn confirms.

"Can you tell me what happened to me?"

"I can, and I will, but I'd like to know what you can remember first."

"Well if I knew what happened to me I wouldn't have to ask, Doc," Jon says, the frustration clear in his voice.

"Try, Sergeant," Flynn suggests, almost encouragingly. "Tell me everything you can remember."

"Ugh," Jon grunts, struggling to wake up his short term memory. "Fine, Doc... I'll do my best."

He closes his eyes, willing himself to remember what got him here.

Then he begins.

# TWELVE

"My squad and I were on a foot patrol. Walking down a narrow dirt path between two distinct groups of buildings. Varying sizes... one story, two story, three story. It was a frickin' sniper's paradise in there, Doc..."

Jon pauses, closing his eyes just a little bit tighter, emotion welling up inside him.

"Okay, then what happened, Sergeant?" Dr. Flynn asks, helping Jon dig deeper.

"My point man went down... PFC Moore. By the time myself and the rest of my squad had taken cover, I had the shortest distance to travel to help him... and since I had a good, safe spot in mind to drag him to, I told my guys to stay put and let me run out there for him."

"And then what? What's the last thing you remember?"

"I remember getting to Moore, seeing that the sniper's first bullet had struck him in the throat, and wondering to myself how in the hell he hadn't bled out yet. He was still wheezing when I got to him, I'll never forget that wheezing sound... and there was so much blood around his head and neck, but he was still alive. He looked at me."

"He looked at you?"

"Yes. He stared straight into my eyes, like he wanted to say something, but couldn't. Like he wanted to move, but couldn't. He looked... lost, but he was still alive."

"And then you tried to drag him to safety?"

"Correct. I hadn't so much as latched onto his flak jacket and started inching him back in the direction I'd come from when I heard another loud cracking noise and felt an intense ripping sensation on the left side of my body. I was done. I thought I was dead."

Dr. Flynn raises a hand to signal to Jon that he's heard enough, that he'd like to say something now.

"In all honesty you should be dead right now, Sergeant. All my years in the medical field, treating combat veterans... I've never seen an injury like yours. Until you came along. But before I get into that, I gotta ask: you don't remember getting hit twice?"

"Uh, I was only hit once, Doc," Jon says, thinking this guy must be smokin' dope.

"Wrong," Dr. Flynn corrects him. "Look at your right shoulder, Sergeant."

Jon turns his head ninety degrees to the right and sees his shoulder wrapped in a very healthy amount of blood-stained gauze. "Holy... shit, Doc. Remind me never to argue with you again... ha, but seriously, why couldn't I remember getting hit in the shoulder?"

"You probably didn't feel it," Flynn concludes, "because you had so much adrenaline coursing through your body as you approached your fallen point man. You were so focused on getting to him as fast as you could that a glancing-blow to the shoulder didn't even register as something to pay attention to."

"Makes sense, I suppose," Jon nods in agreement... "But why'd the second shot that hit me stop me in my tracks so fast? I went down like a ton of shit, Doc."

"The flak jacket you were wearing... it had Sapi plates, didn't it Sergeant?"

"It did. Two protective plates, one in front and one in back. There was actually talk about us getting some 'side Sapis' as well... smaller plates designed to bridge the gap between the front plate and the back plate, to protect a Marine's sides... but we hadn't gotten them yet. Ha, probably would've saved me a world of hurt, huh?"

"They most certainly would've," Flynn agrees. "It's a shame you didn't have them yet. Well, Sergeant... if you're ready to hear more about bullet number two and why you're so fortunate to be breathing right now, I'm ready to explain it to you the best I can."

# THIRTEEN

"Hit me, Doc, tell me how lucky I am," Jon says with an almost cocky smile.

"Bullet number two," Flynn begins, "went for quite a ride. It pierced the side of your body, more toward the front than the back, and started tumbling end-over-end, leaving an exit wound roughly three times as big as the entry wound. And I'm sure you already know about bullets behaving like that..."

Jon nods to confirm that he does, and Dr. Flynn goes on.

"...but this bullet had no choice but to go back into your body."

"What? It went back in?" Jon asks, astounded with what he was hearing.

"That's right," Flynn repeats, "it went back in. The angle the bullet entered you was just right... so sharp... that it tore through you, came out, and still had enough velocity, enough force, to ricochet off the Sapi plate on the back of your flak jacket and re-enter your body... where it did even more damage, more tumbling, and finally lost its momentum and stayed there, lodged inside you."

Jon's jaw was in his lap. He couldn't believe it. "So what you're tellin' me, Doc, is that the very thing designed to protect me from a bullet actually caused more injury than I would've sustained if I hadn't been wearing my flak jacket at all?"

"Correct... had the plate not been there the bullet would've just sailed right through you. That's how sharp the original angle of entry was."

"Ha! Well, son of a bitch!" Jon exclaims, laughing hysterically... "I guess I was lugging around all that extra weight for nothin' then, huh?"

Before Dr. Flynn can react, Jon thinks of another, more serious question. "And it just stayed in me after it bounced off the plate. Is that what Wendy meant when she referred to my 'operation?' Was the 'operation' you performed on me opening me up and fishing the bullet out?"

"Your mind is certainly in working order," Flynn begins, "because you're right again, Sergeant. I've successfully removed the bullet."

Jon thinks that's good news. "Great," he says, "when can I get flown back to Iraq to rejoin my Marines?"

"I'm afraid you won't be able to do that, Sergeant," Dr. Flynn replies, hanging his head, staring at the floor, knowing how hard this is going to be for Jon to accept.

"What? Why the hell not? I've got to..."

Dr. Flynn interrupts with the cold, hard truth. "Sergeant Cole, that bullet really did a number on you. It took out one of your kidneys, which isn't immediately fatal... you can operate with one kidney, but it also did serious damage to your liver and your stomach, both of which are half their original size. It's all I could salvage... I'm sorry, Sergeant."

"It's not your fault, Doc," Jon says, "thank you for operating on me, for getting that damn thing outta me and saving whatever you could save." Turning away from Dr. Flynn and looking out the window, Jon knows the answer to his next question. But he asks it anyway. "So I really can't go back to my boys? I'm really done being a Marine?"

"Oh you'll always be a Marine," Dr. Flynn assures him. "Isn't that the saying? 'Once A Marine, Always A Marine?'" The doctor's smile evaporates. "But no, I'm afraid you'll never be cleared for combat again, with the injuries you've just sustained and the condition they've left your body in."

"FUCK!" Jon shrieks as he chucks the call button remote across the room, not taking the time to realize there's a chord on it, that it can't go anywhere but straight to the floor. Embarrassing as that is for him, he's just as upset that such a small movement caused enough internal pain to bring tears to his eyes. He didn't want to cry in front of the Doc.

"Easy... take it easy, Sergeant," Dr. Flynn says, calmly. "Your body's still very sensitive, you've got a lot of recovering to do. I won't insult your intelligence by telling you I know how you feel, because I don't. What I will say is that you've got every right to be upset, to be angry, and to be frustrated."

Jon closes his eyes again, pinching the tears that had formed just seconds before and forcing them down his cheeks. He takes a few long, slow, deep breaths... settles back down a bit, and remembers something he'd yet to ask Dr. Flynn. He can't believe he hadn't asked him right away. His eyes snap open.

"Doc! What about Private First Class Moore??? Aww shit, c'mon Doc, tell me I didn't end my Marine Corps career for nothing. Tell me he's alive. Tell me he made it."

"He did make it," Flynn replies, happy to deliver a piece of good news.

"Yes!!!" Jon shouts, raising his arms overhead, ignoring the pain he's causing himself this time because he's got a legitimate reason to celebrate. "Where is he? Is he in this building? Can I see him? How's he doing?"

Dr. Flynn looks like something's wrong. Like he's got bad news again. Jon notices.

"What's up, Doc?"

# FOURTEEN

"Well," Dr. Flynn begins, "first I'd like to say this: it's refreshing to see your mood change so quickly. I'm glad you're happy that he made it."

"But?"

"But I want you to understand something, Sergeant. Even if you'd been able to drag Moore off that road and get him back to a safe place, he'd be in no better condition than he's in right now. There's really nothing you could've done to help him, the damage had already been done. He's alive because of you, but the... state he's in... it isn't your fault."

"What are you getting at, Doc?" Jon asks, not completely sure that he wants to know. "What 'state' is Moore in?"

"You recalled today that the sniper's first shot hit Moore in the throat, right?"

"Yeah..."

"Well somehow, someway, the bullet left Moore's carotid artery untouched. That's why he didn't bleed out right then and there. That much we can be thankful for. What the bullet did do, however, was sever Moore's spinal cord..."

"Jesus..."

"...paralyzing him from the neck down and rendering him, in a word, speechless. He'll never walk, use his hands, or express himself verbally again, for the rest of his life."

"Christ, Doc, what kind of life is that?"

"Not much of one, I admit... but hey, he's still alive. And he's got you and the rest of your squad to thank for that. Had you not done what you did, Moore likely would've bled to death... and had you let anybody else run over there and attempt to help Moore, you'd have their injury on your conscience."

"I guess you're right, Doc. Shitty as this whole thing is, you're right. Is he still here? Can I see him?"

"He's not here anymore, but he was. He was just a few rooms over from you up until a few days ago, when he was transported back to the States."

"I just wish I could've seen him when he was here. I wish I could've told him I was sorry, that I tried my best. I wish I hadn't slept for two freaking weeks straight."

"Didn't Wendy tell you, Sergeant? The two week mini-coma was totally out of your hands. It's not your fault at all. We had to do that, to give your body the best possible odds at getting better."

"Shit, that's right... she did tell me that. Guess I forgot."

"Anyway, I'm sure Moore doesn't blame you. I'm sure he knows you did everything you could to help him."

"Thanks, Doc. I hope you're right. I just don't know what I'm going to do now. If I can't return to my men, my life as a Marine, I've really got nothing."

"I know what you're going to do now," Flynn replies, a sly smirk growing across his face.

"Oh is that right? What's that?"

"You're going to get your ass back to the States, accept the hero's welcome you rightfully deserve, and carry on with your life the best you can. I may not know you personally, Sergeant Cole, but I know a strong motherfucker when I see one."

"Hero's welcome? For me? Yeah... right..."

Flynn gets serious. "Listen and listen well, Sergeant. The fact that you were over there to begin with, putting yourself in harm's way day after day after day... that alone makes you a hero in my book. But in your case... you're looking at a Purple Heart... probably even a Bronze Star for what you were doing for Moore as you sustained your injuries."

At the mention of the awards he's likely going to receive, Jon can't help but think of his father and how much he misses him. And just like that, Flynn's words of wisdom hit home. They land. They sink in.

Doc's motivational kick in the ass reminds Jon of how highly his father regarded men who'd been injured in combat, men who'd done heroic things and earned the nation's highest awards for valor. He was one of those men now, and he was proud of it.

"Sergeant? You still with me?" Dr. Flynn asks, sounding a bit concerned.

Jon hadn't responded... he was too lost in his own thoughts. "Yup, still with you Doc."

"You didn't answer my last question. You looked like you were spacing out."

"Oh I'm sorry, what'd you ask me?"

"I asked if you had a girl waiting for you back home. If you had somebody missing you and counting the days until you returned."

"I did..." Jon starts to say. "Wait – I thought I did. We were planning on getting married after I returned from this deployment. No dice. She ripped my heart out of my chest the day I went down trying to help Moore."

"Well I guess you'll just have to pick it up, dust it off and plug that thing back in, because damn it, there's a lot of fight left in you and you've got a lot of life left to live. You're gonna be just fine, Jon."

Jon.

It was the first time Dr. Flynn had addressed him by his first name.

# FIFTEEN

Grand Rapids, Michigan.

December 17, 2004.

Jon recovered quickly.

Faster than anybody at the hospital in Germany could have ever anticipated.

A mere seven days after waking up from his two week slumber, Jon was back in the States, back in Grand Rapids, back home... just in time for Christmas, too.

And what a homecoming they put on for him.

Camera crews from every local TV station broadcasted his private flight home as it made its final approach and prepared to land. Reporters swarmed around him as soon as the hatch had opened and Jon had made his way down the stairs.

Ten microphones shoved in his face at once; questions fired from all directions.

"Sergeant Cole, what was it like over there?"

"Do you agree with the American involvement in the Middle East?"

"Your Marine Corps career is over. What are you going to do now?"

Everybody wanted inside his mind, and not one of them had the common courtesy to give him enough time to think of a response before unleashing the next question.

Overwhelmed, heart racing, feeling cornered, Jon forces his way through the media mob without saying a word and seeks shelter in the black SUV parked just off the runway, waiting for him.

"For what it's worth, that's total bullshit... the way they attacked you out there, demanding answers," the driver of the SUV says, his words sincere. "Anyway, let's get you out of here. Where am I taking you, Sergeant?"

"Take me home."

Home was the starter-house Jon and Erin had moved into just weeks before he left for Iraq. How ironic it is, Jon realizes, that the place I didn't want to leave just five months ago is now the last place on earth I want to be.

But he's got nowhere else to go. And since he's the one paying the mortgage, and Erin was the one to end things between them... in his mind that house belonged to him, and... if she was still living there... well, that would change very quickly.

The hero's welcome the community had put on for Jon went far beyond the airport. Hundreds, thousands of local residents lined the streets, suffering through the Michigan winter weather, standing in snow, holding signs that said 'Welcome Home' and 'Hero.'

It wasn't just downtown, either... no, the walls of people on both sides of the road continued all the way to Jon's house – the entire five mile trip. The local news authorities must've assumed this would be his first stop after getting back and leaked the details; that's the only way something this massive could've been organized.

Jon thought it was a little over the top, but he couldn't help but feel honored at this collective display of affection and gratitude. Total strangers to Jon, as far as his eyes could see, freezing their asses off to let him know they cared about him... that they were genuinely happy that he made it home safe.

"Here we are, Sergeant," his driver announces as he eases the black SUV into Jon's driveway. "Need me to stick around? Help you get settled in? Fight off some of your fans so you can get to your front door in one piece?"

Jon can't help but laugh at the last question. "No," he replies, pausing to chuckle some more. "I'll be fine. But I appreciate the offer, I really do. Thank you."

As he steps out of the SUV and closes the door behind him, he can't believe what he didn't notice sitting in the garage as they first pulled in. The door is open, and both stalls are occupied. The Chevy Impala he'd left behind is there, that much he expected to see... but right next to it is Erin's Pontiac Grand Prix.

She's still here.

Living here.

In his house.

# SIXTEEN

Stifling the rage monster growing inside him, Jon makes his way up the driveway as calmly as he can, stopping to turn around and wave at the cheering crowd behind him every few paces... faking a smile as he does so. Seeing Erin's car, realizing she was still here, drained him of the happiness the army of strangers had given him. He wanted to enjoy this moment, but he couldn't. Not anymore.

Scaling the steps leading up to his front deck, Jon reaches for a knob that won't turn. "Locked... you gotta be kiddin' me" he mutters to himself as he releases the knob and reaches down for the key hidden under the Welcome mat at his feet.

Before he can find the key with his fingers he hears the lock on the front door turn, very slowly. He stands up. The front door opens. And there she is.

"Move!" Jon commands, storming toward Erin and forcing her to walk backwards as he enters his home and slams the front door behind him.

She looks startled, surprised, like she doesn't understand why he's behaving this way, why he's upset with her.

"Jon, babe... gosh, uh... I didn't expect you so soon. I mean I saw the news reports about you getting hurt and coming home... I just didn't think you'd come here."

"First of all, drop the 'babe' bullshit," Jon demands, his face red with rage. "I'm not your 'babe' – not anymore – not since you mailed me that ever so thoughtful letter with your hacked up engagement ring. What a nice way to let me know you'd changed your mind, by the way...

"...and second of all, this is my house."

"But it's my house, too," Erin responds, quietly, softly, like she's trying to be cute. "We moved in here together, remember? This house is as much mine as it is yours..."

Jon jumps in before she can say another word. "Like hell it is!" He surprises himself with how easy it is to yell at the woman he used to love. The woman he still loves. He thought it would be difficult. "Is your name anywhere in the paperwork?"

He waits for Erin to respond. Nothing.

"I didn't think so. Are you the one making payments on this place?"

Again, Erin says nothing.

"I didn't think so. You tell me the wedding's off without one OUNCE of an explanation as to why... just, out of the blue... done, over, finished... I almost die the very next day, get sent home early, against my will... and when I get here not only is your car still in my driveway, but all your stuff is still here, and YOU are here, obviously with no intention of leaving. I dare you to keep acting surprised at how upset I am. I dare you."

"I'm so, so, SO sorry, Jon," Erin says, on the verge of tears now, for some reason believing an apology is going to get her somewhere or somehow erase the damage she'd done, this late in the game. "I wanted to wait for you. I really did. But I got so lonely. It got to be too much, it was just too hard."

Jon saw no point in sharing with Erin just how much she'd been on his mind when he was in Iraq. How he thought about her all day every day, dreaming of coming back to her... of marrying her, starting a family with her.

"I'm actually glad it's over, Erin," he says, ice in his eyes. "I'm thrilled that we didn't get married. That we never will. Had we gotten hitched before I left, I'd be ass deep in a legal battle to keep this place. 'What's mine is yours,' all that garbage."

Erin starts to realize the reality of her one, fateful decision... and like anybody filled with regret, she tries to reverse it. "So we're really done then, huh? You don't even want to try to work things out... start over again?"

Jon shakes his head in disbelief. "You can't be serious."

"I've never been more serious, Jon. I want nothing more than to pick up where we left off. I want to go back to the way things were, before you left."

"I think you're high. You gotta be on drugs if you really think I'm going to take you back after what you did to me... the way you chose to do it. Pack your shit. Leave. I don't want to ever see you or hear from you again. You're dead to me."

"But I've got nowhere else to go..."

"You've got nowhere else to go?!?! I've got nowhere else to go. You know that. You know my mother killed herself a few months before I went overseas, you know I don't have any siblings to lean on and that my parents' house isn't in my family anymore. You know I, quite literally, have nothing else besides this house..."

Emotions threatening to get the best of him, Jon wills them away so he can continue.

"...YOU, on the other hand, have parents you can run home to with your tail between your legs, and you've got your sister... AND... you can shack up with the guy you started bangin' when I was away. See? You've got all kinds of places to go."

"But Jon, I didn't mess around when you were gone..."

# SEVENTEEN

Jon knew she was lying.

He'd known her, intimately, for years. And like a monkey swinging through the trees, she wouldn't let go of one branch until she'd latched onto another.

"Oh really?" Jon challenges her as he heads for his bedroom – the master bedroom – the bedroom that used to be theirs. "So if I walk in here and look in the closet, I won't find evidence of another guy staying here with you?"

"Jon, wait... you don't understand." Erin pleads in desperation. She follows him into the bedroom. She knows what he'll find in there.

He starts with the drawer underneath the table on her side of the bed. He opens the drawer and pulls out an unopened box of condoms. He glares at Erin. "Well, here's Exhibit A. Condoms. We haven't used a condom in years."

Off to the closet. Jon flings open the door to find, right out in the open, hanging from the steel rod inside... at least a dozen shirts on his side of the closet that don't belong to him. "And here we have Exhibit B. I wonder who these belong to," he says, sarcastically while looking back at Erin. "I bet he's a hell of a guy."

Having found all the evidence he needed to confirm that Erin was lying to his face, Jon was going to shut the closet door and stop right there... but a small black box catches his attention from the top shelf. "Well, well, well... what do we have here... this wasn't here when I left..."

"Jon, don't..." Erin tries to stop him, knowing it's no use.

He takes the box down, sets it on the bed, opens it up... and inside the box he finds ten meticulously organized rows of cocaine balls, individually wrapped in plastic like they're ready to be sold.

"And finally, I give you Exhibit C." Jon takes a step backward, laughing to himself. "Oh my God, you're a cokehead. Correction: you're a cokehead, AND you're dealing. I've never touched this shit, but I know a casual user wouldn't wrap it up like this. Even if I wasn't a cop I'd be able to come to that conclusion." He locks eyes with Erin.

When she covers her nose with her hand like she's trying to hide it from him, he knows he's at least partially right – that she's used, and used recently.

"So you've been dealing cocaine... out of my house? A police officer's house?"

"I've been using it, Jon, I won't lie to you about that. But no, I'm not the one dealing it. Honest."

"Well somebody is, Erin. And I've got a hunch it's your new boy toy. Seeing as how the condoms, men's clothes (that aren't mine), and the cocaine are all new additions since I've last been here, I'd say I'm spot-on with that assessment. Tell me I'm wrong."

Erin throws in the towel. She's got nothing.

"You've got an hour. Take everything you own, leave everything you don't. Get out, and don't ever come back. If you're not done and out of here within an hour, or if I find out that you've been back here, after you've gone, I'm arresting you."

Choking on tears, Erin starts gathering her belongings.

"One more thing," Jon says as he remembers the last letter she'd sent him in Iraq. She has no idea she's about to eat her own words. "Have a nice life, Erin."

# EIGHTEEN

Three weeks after Jon's return to the States.

Three weeks after forcing Erin out of his life and embarking on a seemingly impossible task: starting over from scratch. With nothing. With nobody.

A lonely Christmas behind him and brand new year in front of him, he's feeling optimistic about the future. But he knows what can happen, what always happens, when he starts to hope, when he starts to expect. He opens himself up for pain.

Physical pain, he can deal with... it's evaporating more and more with each passing day... but the emotional pain, the pain nobody can see but him, well that hadn't even begun to heal yet.

Jon wondered if it ever would.

Dr. Flynn had been right – Jon was awarded both the Purple Heart and the Bronze Star for his actions on that life-altering day in Fallujah... for putting himself in harm's way above and beyond what was considered 'normal' and laying his own life on the line in an effort to help Private First Class Moore.

Since he'd made the return trip home all by himself, without the rest of his unit, he didn't receive his awards in front of a large audience. No, they were presented to him almost in secret – with handshakes and congratulatory pats on the back from one high-ranking Marine Officer he'd never met before and a couple guys in suits – probably politicians.

But that was fine with Jon... he actually preferred it that way.

Crowds made him nervous. 'On-edge' is actually a better way to describe it. And it didn't even have to be a big crowd... anything more than a handful of people and he just didn't feel comfortable. His mind would automatically start taking in his entire environment, scanning everybody around him for threats.

Even day-time grocery shopping would set him off. He'd walk in with a list of items to purchase, grab a cart, and he'd feel okay – he'd feel 'normal' for about three minutes. Then he'd feel his chest tighten and his eyes would start darting around the store at shoppers scurrying from aisle to aisle, like shopping for food was a race and they'd better hurry their asses up if they wanted any chance at winning.

Everybody seemed to be in a hurry.

Jon was out of touch with American society... he felt out of place. Like he didn't belong there anymore, like he didn't know what to do with the freedom he'd sacrificed so much to protect once he was stateside again and had the chance to exercise that freedom.

Counseling after being separated from the Marine Corps, after taking home the piece of paper that made everything official – his discharge certificate – that should've helped.

But it didn't. It made him feel even worse.

"Ah, Mr. Cole, please come in," his counselor welcomed him on his first and only visit.

He encouraged Jon to describe to him, in detail, the things he'd seen and done overseas, and how and why he was feeling uncomfortable... but after Jon had taken the time and summoned the willpower to do so, he had nothing useful to offer.

Unless he was supposed to perceive generic, canned, reassuring responses about how he understood what Jon was going through and how he'd talked to lots of other veterans who had said similar things as 'useful information.'

Frustrated with the process, Jon finally comes out and asks the question he already knows the answer to. "You ever serve, Greg? Ever seen combat?"

"Well no, I personally have not..." he replies, sheepishly... "But..."

"I didn't think so. Thanks for your time." And Jon was out the door, never to return.

He did realize, though, that his one trip to see Greg wasn't a complete waste, because Greg suggested that Jon get himself tested for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

It was an idea he scoffed at when the counselor first brought it up, but when he kept listening and learned that there might be some compensation in it for him... as in, ongoing benefits from the government, if his test results warranted it, he became a heck of a lot more open-minded – really fast.

So he jumps in his Chevy Impala and sets sail for the testing facility halfway across the State of Michigan. It was a long, lonely drive... the potential for an ongoing financial reward for getting tested the only reason he even made the trip.

Jon didn't want to return to police work, and he was running out of time to develop another source of income.

Upon arrival he wades through more paperwork than he's ever seen in his life. Fill this out. Sign this. Detail every single one of your combat experiences here. Initial here.

Combine that with the physical portion of the testing and it took Jon almost an entire day, from early morning to early evening, to get through it all.

But surprisingly, he actually felt good about the process as he got back into his car and began the long drive back.

He felt so good he made an unplanned stop on the way home – at a car dealership – just before closing time. He was finally ready to part with the last possession of his that reminded him of Erin.

Using a good chunk of his deployment money – and offering up the Chevy Impala he never wanted to see again as a trade-in – Jon drove off in an almost new, jet-black Toyota Tundra pickup. He would've preferred to buy American, but it was the nicest truck he could afford.

Proud of himself, he was nothing but smiles the whole rest of the way home.

And then the waiting game began.

# NINETEEN

Clearly, Greg didn't know what he was talking about.

Jon of course had asked him how long it would take for the government to analyze his test results and when he should expect a decision to reach him by mail.

"Usually takes around three months," Greg had said. "Lots of veterans are deciding to get tested when they first get back, so it takes a while to process."

"Wow, I guess so," Jon had replied. "Gonna be cuttin' it pretty close to my deadline with the Sheriff... to let him know if I'd like to pick up where I left off with police work... but as long as it doesn't take longer than three months, I'll be fine."

Two weeks after getting tested, Jon makes his daily trip down his driveway and out to his mailbox, expecting to find nothing but junk mail; wasted resources, pure garbage. More stuff to throw away without so much as opening.

Instead he finds the one piece of mail he wants to receive, more than two months ahead of schedule: a plain brown envelope addressed to him from the testing facility.

His results.

Like a graduating high school senior anxious to see if he'd been accepted into his college of choice, Jon tears into the envelope right there at the end of his driveway, far too impatient to spend an extra minute to bring it inside first.

"Please. Please," Jon vocalizes to nobody but himself as he frees the stapled stack of pages from their protective packaging and positions them right side up so he can start reading. "Please tell me that I deserve enough benefits to live on... I don't think I can be a cop anymore."

It was a thought he'd been having more and more often as he continued struggling with how much combat had changed him, how different he felt in his own skin compared to before he was deployed... but this was the first time he'd molded that thought into words. Doing so, actually saying it, was a betrayal to his father; an irreparable crack in the silent promise he'd made to pick up his dad's torch and carry his legacy forward.

But God did it feel good... letting it go, speaking the truth... even if nobody else could hear it.

Jon quiets his mind enough to start digesting the government's decision.

"Mr. Cole,

Having carefully reviewed your case, it is apparent that you are suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder as a result of your combat experiences in Iraq. Based on your testimony, we are awarding you a Disability Rating of thirty-percent, which entitles you to a Disability Benefits payment of four-hundred dollars per month."

Jon cringed at the word.

Disability.

Reading it conjured up images of handicapped people, both mentally and physically. People on crutches, people in wheelchairs, people with mental capacities far below what society had deemed 'normal' and 'average'... people who insensitive assholes point and laugh at because they think they're retarded.

Jon didn't fall into any of these categories, but according to the stack of pages he was holding, he was disabled... forever branded as having something 'wrong' with him.

It didn't sit well with him, this new label. What really pissed him off, though, was the amount of money the government felt he was 'entitled' to.

Four hundred per month. One hundred per week. How in the hell am I supposed to live off that? Jon asks himself without speaking, his inner voice angry and frustrated. First you call me a hero, now you say I'm disabled. Well tell me this, federal government. Had I returned missing a limb or two, then would I have deserved more? Is that what you guys dish out the big bucks for... wounds people can SEE?

The two weeks he'd waited after making the long trip to get tested were a breath of fresh air for Jon. He'd felt less confused, less out of place, noticed himself settling in and, much to his surprise, actually feeling human again. But these changes for the better hadn't come from within.

No, Jon only improved because he'd formed the belief that the government was going to do their best to make things right. Take care of him. See to it that his transition from combat-deployed Marine back to being a civilian was as smooth and easy as possible.

Realizing how wrong he'd been to let his guard down and trust that his country actually gave a damn about him, Jon knew what he had to do. Something he hadn't done in years, something he'd promised himself he'd never do again.

He'd been fighting the urge, and fighting it well, every day since his return. Nothing he'd encountered since coming home had been enough to force him over the edge. Not individually, anyway... but the stress was just too much for him now. The cumulative effect of everything put together was too strong.

The showdown with Erin his first day back. Forcing her out of his house, pushing her the rest of the way out of his life. He could've broken down then, but he didn't.

Feeling so awkward, so alone and so out of place amongst everyday people in everyday situations. Like an alien trying to relate to humans. Like nobody wanted to understand why he acted the way he did, to understand what he'd been through, and even if they did... fearing that they'd never be able to.

Again, he could've caved. He could've sought shelter and comfort in old behavior patterns.

But Jon hung on... clinging desperately to the idea that the government he'd sacrificed so much for would be there for him in his time of need – would provide for him as he worked to get back on his feet, get himself straightened out.

Holding the government's decision in his hands, rage consuming him as he mentally processed what his country felt his sacrifice was worth... it was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back for Jon.

He had no choice now, no choice but to do the exact thing he didn't want to do, the exact opposite of what he'd finally found the courage to say out loud minutes before.

Stuffing the paperwork back into the envelope it had shown up in, Jon decided that if he had to return to police work, he'd make it easier on himself. He'd enlist the help of a friend he'd abandoned years ago.

The only friend who had always been there for him, no matter what life threw his way.

# TWENTY

Jon stumbles to his bedroom closet, his body awareness and balance weakened by the reunion with his long lost friend. "Why didn't I do this before?" he asks himself with a chuckle. "This feels amazing."

In no time at all his eyes land on what he'd spontaneously wandered in here for – one of his brown police uniforms, just where he'd left it, both garments sharing the same triangular hanger – pants slung over the horizontal bottom edge, shirt hugging the sides. He returns to the living room, taking extra special care to not bump into anything along the way, and drapes the uniform over the back of his black leather couch.

Standing there, staring at it, swaying ever so slightly from side to side, he all of a sudden finds himself wanting to put it on. That's right. The same Jon who, just hours before, didn't want to be a cop anymore... couldn't bring himself to even think about putting on the uniform again... out of the blue, has to feel it on his body.

He sheds the holey tee shirt and sweatpants he'd been lounging in all morning and throws himself into his cop threads like it's a life and death matter, a race against time, and plops down on the couch... acutely aware of how much better he's feeling, the sense of power and confidence that's come over him.

"I'm ready to go back," he says aloud, fixing his glazed eyes on the TV in front of him that isn't turned on, staring at his blurry reflection. He inhales deeply through his nose and decides it's worth repeating. "OH yeah, I'm ready to go back. Time to make the call."

Jon grabs his phone off the coffee table, fumbles through his list of stored contacts, finds the one he's looking for and taps the little green phone icon to initiate the call. "Sheriff!" He blurts out as soon as the call is answered, loud enough to deafen the poor guy. "Listen, man," he starts with a slur, "I know you said I could have a few months off to figure out if I even want to come back to work, but I'm ready. I'm ready right now."

"Well that's good news, Jon," Sheriff Lewis replies, excitement in his voice. "I'm very happy to hear that." He pauses briefly and continues in a more serious tone. "You sound like you've had a little to drink today."

Jon's eyes dart to the fifth of Jack Daniels on the coffee table with two inches of brown liquid left in it... two inches of whiskey that belonged in the short drinking glass right next to it. Jon had emptied the glass just minutes before fetching his uniform, and it was time for a refill.

"Something wrong with a combat veteran enjoying a drink or two, Sheriff?" Jon asks, almost challengingly as he transfers the last of his liquid friend from bottle to glass and makes it disappear with a single gulp.

"Well, no... not under normal circumstance..."

"Normal circumstances?" An entire bottle of liquor combined with the government's recent confirmation that Jon's not normal has left him easily offended, so without even meaning to, he takes the Sheriff's statement very personally – he sees it as an insult. "What do you mean by that?"

"I'm referring to the fact that it's two o'clock in the afternoon, Jon. On a Monday. Listening to your voice I can tell you've had more than a drink or two... you sound like you've been hitting it pretty hard."

"But Sheriff, I've only had..."

"It worries me, Jon, to hear you sounding like this. You told me you used to have a hell of a drinking problem, but as long as I've known you, you've been sober. Can I ask what made you return to the bottle all of a sudden? This isn't like you."

"I just... felt like it today, Sheriff. Nothing specific drove me to it," Jon lied, afraid that if he told the truth about how strange he'd been feeling since his return and the fact that he'd tested positive for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, he'd never let him come back.

"Let's discuss you rejoining your fellow officers once whatever you've consumed has worked its way through your system, Jon. Call me tomorrow when you've got a clearer head and I'd be happy to talk about you coming back. We missed you when you were over there."

And with that the Sheriff hung up, before Jon could say anything else.

Outraged, Jon hurls his phone across his living room hard enough to put a nice dent in the wall. Who was HE to make that kind of judgment about him? Had he been in Iraq with him? Did he have firsthand experience of the things he'd gone through?

The Sheriff's words meant nothing to Jon. His head was the clearest it had felt in a long, long time... and he wanted to see things even clearer.

He stares at his empty glass. Then the empty bottle.

"Wanna know what's great about you, Jack?" Jon talks to the empty fifth like it's a living, breathing person. He pauses like the bottle is actually going to respond, then continues. "Just when I think you've disappeared on me, just when I think you've left me high and dry to deal with my troubles alone, I remember that you're merely a clone. Hey, that last part rhymes!"

Laughing hysterically at his previously undiscovered gift with words, Jon floats toward his front door on a mission to go out and get himself another Jack Daniels clone.

He gets half a step away from the door after he'd closed it behind him before he realizes that he doesn't have his wallet. So he turns around and walks straight into the closed door. How he pulled that one off will forever remain a mystery; his hand never left the knob.

Wallet in pocket, his adventure can continue.

At no time during his first trip out the door, his collision with the closed door, or his return trip to retrieve his wallet does Jon even consider changing out of his police uniform before shuffling the three blocks between him and the nearest liquor store.

He should have.

# TWENTY-ONE

"Hey honey, sorry to bother you at work, but I can't believe what I'm seeing right now," Theresa Lewis says, relieved that her husband answered his cell phone so quickly.

"You're not bothering me at all," Sheriff Lewis reassures his wife. "Is everything okay? Where are you right now?"

"Yeah, yeah, everything's fine... I mean, I'm fine. I was in the middle of running my usual errands when I realized the car needed to be filled up. I'm at a Shell station right now, the one right across from the liquor store on Third Street. I'm pumping gas."

"Okay, so what's going on? What do you see that you can't believe?"

"Unless my eyes are playing tricks on me, I see one of your officers across the street. He's in uniform." Theresa pauses. "Well... somewhat. He seems to have forgotten his hat and shoes. He's barefoot, no police car in sight, staggering down the sidewalk and raising a brown paper bag to his mouth every few steps."

"Son of a bitch," Sheriff Lewis mutters, knowing right away who his wife is describing to him. "It's gotta be Jon. He called me no more than half an hour ago and admitted that he'd been drinking, but Jesus, I didn't know he was in uniform. He must've finished whatever he had and decided he needed more. He lives just a few blocks from where you're at... which way is he heading?"

"Third Street runs East and West, doesn't it?" Theresa was never very good with directions.

"Correct."

"Then East... he's heading East."

"Whew, thank God. He's heading home. I'm about fifteen minutes away, and I doubt I'll be able to beat him there... but I'll try."

**********

Sheriff Lewis slams on his brakes and veers into Jon's driveway, his tires screeching from the strain of his sharp right turn. He'd exceeded the speed limit the best he could to try and get here before Jon returned from the liquor store, but he'd gotten stuck in traffic and ended up losing the race.

Lewis couldn't help but smile as he put his car in park and killed the engine, though, because he realized he still had control over the situation. Though he hadn't been the first one back, he'd retained the element of surprise.

He'd expected a nasty confrontation with a drunken combat veteran, so imagine his relief when he peers through his windshield and sees Jon passed out on the steps leading up to his front door.

"Jesus," Lewis whispers to himself. "He was so far gone he couldn't even make it back into the damn place. I wonder if he locked the door on his way out..."

Sheriff Lewis exits his vehicle, taking his super-sized cup of soda with him. A bucket of ice-cold water would've been ideal, but this would have to do. He didn't need the empty calories anyway.

He sets the two-thirds-full plastic cup on the steps just inches from Jon's unconscious body – very quietly, he doesn't want to wake him up yet – and proceeds to check on the front door. The knob turns. It's unlocked. He lets himself inside.

Kitchen to his right, dining area to his left... Lewis finds what he's looking for on the dining room table. Jon's duty belt... more specifically, the loaded handgun nestled in the holster attached to it. "I sure am glad you didn't decide to take this with you on your little walk this afternoon," Lewis says as he removes the loaded weapon from Jon's holster and secures it in his pants by tucking the barrel between the skin of his lower back and the back of his waistband.

Lewis heads back outside, carefully removes the brown-bagged bottle from Jon's grip and chucks the bottle into the small wooded area bordering Jon's yard. He grabs his gigantic fast-food soft drink, removes the lid, and splashes what's left of the sugary goodness within all over the soon-to-be-former police officer's face.

"What the FUCK?!?!" Jon growls, sitting up abruptly and purging his airways of his Sheriff's disgustingly warm and sticky choice of a wakeup call.

"Funny... that's what I wanted to ask you," Lewis says with a smirk. He lets Jon finish clearing his nose and mouth. "So," he continues, "I had an interesting phone call from my wife today."

Jon rests his elbows on his knees and holds his head in his hands. Lewis waits for him to respond but it's pretty clear that Jon is still trying to piece together where he is and how he got here.

"And I'll tell ya why it was interesting, Jon. As you know, I've been in law enforcement quite a few years... but never – never have I heard of a uniformed officer being drunk off his ass and stumbling his way down a city sidewalk with no damn shoes on."

Shame on his face, Jon glances at his bare feet. At his clothing. Shame evaporates into amusement. "I remember leaving the house to go out and get more to drink, but DAMN," he says, still very intoxicated... "I can't believe I didn't think to shed my uniform first. No wonder the gal behind the counter was lookin' at me funny... ha, I just figured maybe my fly was undone."

"I know I said we'd talk about you coming back to work after you'd sobered up, but I'd like to settle this right now. Do you really think you're ready to return to police work?"

# TWENTY-TWO

Jon's bloodshot eyes meet the Sheriff's just long enough to acknowledge his question, but he doesn't say anything. His facial expression gives Lewis his answer.

"Yeah. I didn't think so. Look... before this little stunt you pulled today, I would've let you back out there, let you get back on the road. But now, having seen just what kind of shape you're in, I just can't do it."

Lewis knows he has to be careful with how he phrases his next statement. He doesn't want to offend Jon.

"I've got nothing but respect and admiration for what you and your fellow Marines did over there... are doing over there. Hell, I couldn't do it. I may be Sheriff around here, but the thought of entering a no-shit combat zone scares the hell out of me. So for what it's worth, Jon, you're twice the man I am, twice the man I'll ever be... and you're half my age. Be proud of that."

"I feel like half the man I was before I left, that's the messed up thing," Jon admits, startling Lewis with his quick, honest response. "I'm not ready, Sheriff." He pauses to wipe his eyes, thankful for the liquor coursing through his body in this moment because it allows him to show human emotion without feeling embarrassed. "I'm not ready at all."

"And you shouldn't feel bad about that," Lewis says sympathetically. "Shit, if I experienced even half of the things you've seen and done I wouldn't want to..."

Jon cuts him off. "I didn't plan on calling you today. Not until I found my test results in the mailbox."

"Test results? What test results?"

"I went and got tested for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder because I'd heard about the possibility of getting a monthly 'benefits' payment from the government."

"And it came up negative? That's why you're upset?"

"No, they say I have it... I just couldn't believe how little they said I was entitled to. It's certainly not enough to live on... and that's kind of what I wanted to see happen, because honestly, Sheriff, I can't be a cop anymore. I just can't. I can't keep my promise to my dad anymore."

"Promise to your dad?"

"Yeah. I made a silent promise when he died that I'd follow in his footsteps. That's why I became a cop, why I joined the Marines... so after getting discharged, being told that I have PTSD and realizing I don't have the stomach to pick up where I left off with police work, I feel like I'm letting him down – in a BIG way."

"Your dad and I joined the department about a year apart. We were close, and not a day goes by that I don't miss him. Because we were close, I know for a fact just how proud he'd be of you, of what you've done in his honor, if he were still alive today. I also know that he wouldn't want you building your life and making your choices to match his... unless it made you happy."

"It did make me happy. Or at least I thought it did..."

"But it doesn't anymore. I can see it in your face. I can hear it in how you're talking about it. There is some truth to the saying 'a drunk man's words are a sober man's thoughts.' You're not coming back to the department. I don't want you there, and I mean that in the nicest way possible. I think it's time for you to start living your life the way you want to, not the way you'd think your dad would want you to."

A calming sense of clarity washes over Jon. "You know something, Sheriff? You're absolutely right. Look at everything I did in an effort to make my deceased father proud. And where did it leave me? I'm single, I'm unemployed, I'm disabled (according to the government)... and I've got half a liver, half a stomach, and one kidney."

"Jesus," Lewis says, "I knew you got hit but I had no idea it'd done so much damage. You're lucky to be alive, my friend."

"That's what everybody keeps telling me." Jon smiles as he lifts up his shirt to show Lewis the scar on his torso and lowers it back down when his eyes turn into saucers.

He looks out at the street, at cars passing by. "So I'm done being a cop. Man, it feels weird saying that. Good, but weird. Well, let's see... I assume you're gonna want my weapon," he says, getting to his feet.

"Already got it," Lewis replies, removing Jon's handgun from his waistband and showing it to him.

"Oh, I see," Jon laughs. "Somebody walked up here with a plan..."

"Sure did," Lewis says, laughing right along with him. "I didn't know what that booze would make you do... better safe than sorry. No offense."

"None taken, none taken. I'm honestly ashamed I brought Jack back into my life. He's such a bad influence on me." Jon sighs. "I know better than that, I really do. Wait, where'd my other bottle go?"

"I threw it in the woods," Lewis replies. "Heard it shatter against a tree. Sorry..."

"Don't be, that shit's poison... ugh, I can't believe I picked it up again."

"Well, you've been through a lot," Lewis reminds him. "Don't be too hard on yourself."

"Thanks Sheriff, I appreciate that." Jon looks down at his uniform. He feels like he's forgetting something. "Shoot," it finally dawns on him, "you're gonna need this back to, right?"

"Nah, keep the badge," Lewis says. "Technically I'm supposed to make you give it back to me, but if you ask me you've earned the right to hang onto it."

"Wow, that means a lot to me," Jon replies, very appreciative of the gesture.

"No problem at all," Lewis says. "You deserve it. So what are you gonna do now, stud?"

Jon considers that for a moment, allowing himself for the first time in his life to selfishly think about what he wants to see happen. "I'm going to get a kickass, high-paying job as far away from military work or police work as possible, I'm going to find an amazing woman and fall in love all over again, and I'm going to kick my liquid crutch to the curb for good!"

Without meaning to, in a burst of inspired confidence, Jon had loaded up his plate of ambitions with too many worthwhile pursuits.

Only one would come true.

# TWENTY-THREE

Jon pulls his Toyota pickup into the same parking lot. He parks in the same parking spot. The spot that has become his spot.

And already, he's sick of it.

The boring, repetitive tasks; his lazy, civilian coworkers.

But tonight is going to be different. That much he can feel good about.

He exits his truck, pulls his heavy-duty coveralls on over his jeans and sweatshirt, takes a couple long swigs from his vodka and Vitamin Water concoction and walks toward the palletizing area, ready to start his shift.

Finding a job had been easy.

Weeks after the conversation with Sheriff Lewis on his front steps Jon had inquired about a 'help wanted' ad he found in the newspaper. A local ice cream factory wanted motivated, hard-working people who weren't afraid of physical, manual labor.

On the strength of his military background and a short, five minute meeting with the human resources department, Jon was in – the job was his. It wasn't 'kickass' and it wasn't 'high-paying,' but work was work.

And he did the work completely sober... in the beginning.

He learned what was expected of him. He was to stand next to a conveyor belt, scoop up the packages of ice cream as they came down, stack the packages on a wooden pallet, and lower the pallet down to a forklift driver when it was full. Eight consecutive hours in temperatures well below freezing, doing exactly that, over and over again.

Every shift was the same. The job was stupidly simple.

Which made listening to his coworkers complain about it all the more frustrating for Jon. None of the guys he stacked ice cream with in that freezer of a work environment had been deployed. None of them had spent any time whatsoever in the military, and only one of them, only one, looked like he was less than thirty pounds overweight.

Josh complained about it being cold all the time.

No shit it was cold. It had to be cold. They were stacking ice cream. Ice cream melts.

Mike bitched and moaned about the conveyor belts moving too fast.

He could never keep up. Time after time Jon would let his own stacking area get backed up to run over and help Mike get caught up with his. Then Jon would catch up on his own stacking, just in time to see that Mike, again, was way behind.

And then there was Chris, who was just full of questions.

"Hey man, what was it like in Iraq?"

"Did you kill anybody?"

"When do you have to go back?"

It amused Jon, the way Chris automatically assumed that he'd killed people and that he'd have to go back... but he never answered his questions. Dumbass questions like these didn't deserve an answer, as far as he was concerned.

It was the combination of these minor annoyances – the mind numbingly repetitive task of moving stuff from point 'A' to point 'B' all night long, from eleven o'clock at night until seven o'clock the next morning... the people he was forced to interact with while doing the work, listening to them bitch and watching them drag their feet – this is what drove Jon to even consider picking up the bottle again.

He switched bottles, though. Bad things happened when he spent time with his buddy Jack... like, walking to a liquor store wearing a police uniform... so he promised himself that, if he was going to drink, he'd stay away from Jack Daniels.

Vodka was the obvious next-best option.

Just as strong as Jack, but it was clear, so Jon could mix it with all kinds of stuff without raising any red flags. Keeping it a secret was crucial.

The first night he found the nerve to show up for work with a little booze in him, Jon wondered why he hadn't been doing it from day one. Slinging ice cream onto pallets wasn't boring anymore. It was fun.

His coworkers didn't annoy the shit out of him anymore, either. He actually held conversations with them without wanting to blow their – or his – brains out. Like flipping a switch, even the most annoying of them suddenly became an interesting person that Jon wanted to spend time with.

Oh, the power of alcohol... it made everything better.

So what if Jon had half a liver? So what if he'd been advised, cautioned, and warned by every healthcare professional he'd been in contact with since his injury that consuming alcohol was a very dangerous thing for him to do?

He didn't care. He was living in the now.

Drinking made life more interesting, made him feel alive, and made him forget the memories that haunted him, while helping him enjoy the present moment and getting him to feel comfortable.

In his mind he had a choice between extending his life and having life suck, or shortening his life and making every day a blast – a new adventure.

He chose adventure.

"I'll see you crazy bastards in a couple days," Jon says before climbing back into his pickup at the end of his shift.

What a night.

Never had his eight hours in the freezer gone by that fast. His productivity doubled, his enjoyment tripled, and nobody, not one person in there gave him any indication that they'd known he'd been drinking.

Oh yes, this was a good idea... a good idea indeed.

Michigan winter was behind him. The snow had disappeared, temperatures were climbing daily, and as Jon poured himself a victory drink for the drive back home, he knew how he'd spend his two days off.

Running by the river.

# TWENTY-FOUR

The Grand River.

What the city of Grand Rapids was named after. Or at least that's what Jon always thought. It made sense to him, but he never confirmed it. He hated verifying facts to make sure he was right. He hated researching; hated having to prove himself.

Know what else he hated?

Running.

Before the Marines, anyway... Now, he loved it. The only thing that kept him cooped up in his house those first few months after coming home was the weather. Winter running? Trudging through the snow? Not really his thing.

But take away that fluffy white stuff and crank up the heat a little and Jon could spend all day outside, just seeing how far his legs could carry him.

He worried at first that his combat injuries might keep him from running, but soon realized just how silly that was. Had he lost a leg? No. Had his feet or legs been injured at all? No. He'd come home with two strong, healthy legs, and for that he was thankful.

Jon figured if he could handle his ice cream stacking job – lifting things over and over again, twisting, turning – if he could do that without aggravating the injuries to his torso, then running would be a breeze.

But he hadn't run in a while, so he wasn't going to be an idiot and attempt something heroic right out of the gate. Like, running ten miles or more.

No, he decided to start light – with just three miles – the distance he used to run for the Marine Corps PFT, the Physical Fitness Test. That much he knew he could handle, no matter how long it had been since he last went running.

The only way he could run three miles close to home without having to stop every block or so to wait for traffic was to run alongside the banks of the Grand River. He'd go a mile and a half in one direction, turn around, and go back to his starting point.

That was the plan Jon decided on as he parked his truck and started making his way down to the water's edge and mentally confirmed that he had everything he needed. He'd topped off his hydration pack before leaving, so he had plenty of water. He'd also remembered his GPS watch, so he'd know how far he ran and know when to turn around for the second half of his three mile adventure. He was ready.

One deep breath and his run was underway.

It felt awkward at first; a little foreign... but he wasn't competing against anybody, it wasn't a race, so Jon relaxed and eased himself into a comfortable, natural stride.

And while his pace was relaxed, his mind was not.

The river was to his left, and to his right were lush, grassy parks littered with picnic tables. Picture-perfect families played together in those parks as Jon ran by, throwing their football back and forth in what had to be the world's wobbliest spiral. Happy couples sat and held hands and cuddled at the picnic tables, sitting on the same side of the table because facing each other from across the table would put too much space between them. Too much space for two people who are madly in love with each other to deal with.

Damn it, this was supposed to be relaxing. It was supposed to calm Jon down, not get him all worked up.

The more he tried to ignore the love and affection off to his right, the more he tried to focus his attention left, on the river... the more his mind drifted to Erin, to what they used to have, to how beautiful and amazing it had been before he decided to enlist and screwed everything up.

Blaming her was unfair. If he hadn't wanted to be a hero, if he hadn't molded his life to make a dead man proud... maybe, just maybe, they'd still be together.

He imagined what that would look like, how that would make his experience of that exact moment in time different; how much better it would be.

It could've been him and Erin sitting back there at that picnic table, flirting, laughing, crazy about each other and not caring who knows it. Or they could've had a family by now... that could've been Jon playing catch with his young son, Erin watching from the sideline, sitting in the shade with the biggest smile on her face as she snapped photo after photo, capturing those beautiful memories forever.

Normally his mind shut off when he ran. Not today.

He could've had it all, but he ruined it.

Having tortured himself with what could have been but wasn't, Jon did a quick, mental tally of what his life really looked like.

He had a job that paid him barely above minimum wage. A job he couldn't stand anymore unless he leaned on alcohol – unless he depended on a substance he knew he shouldn't touch to become someone else, just to tolerate the experience.

That wasn't healthy. That wasn't what he wanted. He deserved better.

He woke up alone. He went to bed alone. He ate all of his meals alone.

He went running alone.

Everything he did, he did alone.

Jon picks up his pace, angry and frustrated with just about every aspect of his life, determined and wanting to believe it was possible to run hard enough and fast enough to outrun his problems; his mistakes.

To make that little voice in his head shut the hell up, to go away and never come back.

But it stayed with him. No matter how hard he pushed, there it was, toying with him, taunting him.

You fucked up, Jon.

Did not, stop it.

Jon thinks he can argue the voice into submission; he's naïve enough to think he can win the battle between his ears.

You shoved Erin out of your life for making one mistake. For one moment of weakness after you'd abandoned her and put seven thousand miles between you.

It was a huge mistake, I promised her I'd come back.

You went to war. There are no guarantees in war. You honestly expected her to believe that, to wait for you, to put her entire life on hold, all based on the CHANCE that you'd come back?

Well, yeah, we were engaged...

You couldn't have forgiven her? Swept it under the rug? Started fresh?

WE WERE ENGAGED.

You're a fool.

Oh yeah? How so?

People cheat on each other all the time. Erin never cheated on you. Not while you were here, not when she was reasonably certain that you'd still be here tomorrow. She was loyal to you. She loved you. Deep down you know how rare what you had with Erin was, and deep down, you know you'll never find it again. Have fun dying alone...

The voice made sense. The little shit was right.

Defeated, Jon dials it down to a pace even slower than what he'd started his run with: nothing more than a weak-ass trot. Looking at his watch he realizes he's not even halfway to his turnaround point.

And already he wants to throw in the towel.

You're pathetic, the voice says. Stop running, turn around, walk back to your truck, go home, and drink. It's the only thing that comforts you, the only thing that makes you feel better... it's all you've got left.

Walking now, head hanging low, eyes on the ground, Jon feels powerless enough against this inner voice of his to, again, agree with it – to accept what it's saying as truth, as fact – but he doesn't follow its instructions right away.

He doesn't turn around, quit, go home and drown his sorrows.

Instead he forces himself to pick his head up, roll his shoulders back, and face his future head-on. As soon as his eyes have a chance to adjust and focus on what's ahead of him instead of what's going on at his feet, there she was.

And the voice, for the first time, had nothing to say.

No more negative bullshit, no more insults, no more anything.

That was Jon's clue.

She'd saved his life before he even knew her name.

That's how Jon knew he had to keep running towards her.

# AMERICAN DREAM: BOOK TWO

# AVAILABLE NOW HERE

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"Discharged from the Marine Corps and depressed over how the United States government has decided to label him: "Disabled" – Jon Cole goes from his lowest low to his highest high when he meets Tara.

Tara inspires Jon to stop drinking and helps him believe that he can create his own living online, but her support and patience dwindle as Jon struggles to bring home the bacon.

When an attempted relapse lands Jon a lucrative cage fighting opportunity, all is good and hope is restored – until he wakes up underground.

Betrayal breeds revenge in American Dream (Book 2). Jon's roller coaster ride continues..."

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