Needless to say, Spunkmeyer did find his clothes hanging from an extremely dusty ceiling fan in the locker room, and it was actually Frost who put them there, not Hudson. Hudson demanded an apology from Hicks, but Hicks was in no mood for anyone's bullshit.

However, Hicks's rage faded later that evening, when he decided to talk to Casey.

"Am I in trouble?" Casey asked when Hicks wanted to see him in his room.

"No," Hicks replied. "Have a seat on the bed. I wanna talk to you."

"Still think I'm in trouble."

"You're not in trouble. I'm the squad corporal, and I say you're not in trouble, OK? Hey, look at me-" Hicks gently took Casey's chin, mouthing, "You're not in trouble."

Casey nodded. "Is it something Drake did?"

"Kinda. I heard a couple things that had me . . . concerned-"

"How he and Hudson had that alcohol stuff?"

"Yeah. And, I was told that . . . you felt like you had been abandoned."

"I said that to Drake. Then he went and got himself all weird and got sick on Hudson and then we didn't do nothing else the whole day 'cause of that." Tears began streaming down Casey's face. "He said we'd have fun yesterday, and he lied to me. Right after telling me he'd never lie to me, and that he'd always be there for me. I trusted him, Hicks-" Casey began pounding the bed with his fist. "I trusted him! I trusted him, and he went and broke that! I ain't ever trusting anybody again! Why does everybody gotta lie to me-"

"Hey, hey, hey!" Hicks took Casey's arm. "Relax. Just . . . calm down, OK? This isn't the end, alright? Look, what happened yesterday was a mistake. Drake should've been more responsible, and he wasn't. It happens to everyone. Drake did not intend to end the day early. Stuff happens. That doesn't mean there won't be other chances for you to go do things."

Casey kept crying, though, prompting Hicks to take him on his lap, and hug him.

"You and Drake need to talk to each other, OK?" Hicks whispered. "Only way you're gonna fix this is by talking."

I have to say that I am proud of Casey for being the one to initiate the conversation when he worked up the courage to talk to me. Of course, it was late at night, right before lights-out. Casey entered my room, without knocking, and got on the bed, crawling up to me. "Drake, we gotta talk," he said, getting on my lap.

I was already laying down, not sitting up, so Casey was basically on top of me, and I felt a sharp pain in my lower abdomen. I grunted before saying, "Your knee's right in my bladder, sport."

Casey folded his arms before resting his head on my chest. "Drake, I trusted you."

"Yeah, and?"

"You broke it. How come you went and got goofed up when we were supposed to go do more roller coasters and stuff?"

"Well, like I said a couple days ago, you are not ready for alcohol, so you don't understand it, alright? Second . . ." I kinda had to think fast, because I wasn't going into the details of drinking with him, "I have a confession to make. I don't know if you figured this out, but . . . I hate being upside-down. But, I didn't want you to be disappointed that I wasn't, you know, going on the roller coasters with you, so I needed a way to . . . get out of it."

Casey thought about that for a minute. "If you said something, I wouldn't be disappointed. Dude, I understand not liking heights, but upside-down? That's kinda weird."

"I know, but that's just how I am. So . . . are we good? Are we still friends? You made me nervous that you were really mad at me, or you thought I abandoned you."

"You ain't gonna do it again, right?"

"Cross my heart."

Casey drew the imaginary "X" over my heart. For a moment, I thought this meant I didn't have to worry about him potentially developing PTSD, but then we both glanced toward the window when rain began pattering against the base and lightning lit up the room for half-a-second. "You gonna go to bed now?" I asked.

After a second of thinking, Casey grabbed one of the blankets on the edge of my bed. "No, I'm staying here."

I sighed. "Fine, but stay on that side of the bed. You kick me, I'm making you sleep on the floor."

"Got it, Drake."

In the morning, I awoke to find Casey's arm draped over me, with his hand close to my mouth. I carefully sat up, and moved Casey over. When I heard Hicks going around to wake people up, I gently shook Casey. "Time to get up, sport," I said, stretching.

Sitting up, Casey rubbed his eyes before saying, "You snored a lot. I had to shut your mouth a couple times."

"If you think I'm bad, you should be in Hudson's room. I wouldn't advise that at night, though."

"Why?"

"Because his farts can probably kill every plant in a large greenhouse."

Of course Casey laughed at that. Kids love fart jokes, for some reason.

At least things between me and Casey were OK. With Wierzbowski, it was a different story. His sourness and sheer bitterness toward everyone radiated off him like heat from a fever.

"Got some news for Casey," Hicks said. "Our C.O. found someone to work on finding your parents, but he's already got another case on his hands. He said the soonest he'd be able to work on your case is a week."

Casey looked at his tray before looking at Hicks.

"I know that's probably not what you wanted to hear, but it's something. You're in a safe environment right now and they tend to work with kids who might be at risk first."

Every kid who'd gotten separated from their parents was at risk of harm in that fucking gym, I thought. I hope those creeps I saw didn't get any of them.

Hicks glanced at the rest of us. "Alright, in other news, today is PT day. I want everyone outside in the yard by oh-nine-thirty, in your exercise clothes."

Spunkmeyer sighed. "Are we actually gonna do something, or is it just gonna be, 'Twenty fucking jumping-jacks, ladies!'"

Hicks was silent for a minute. "Number one, five bucks in the swear jar, and number two, what would you rather do, Spunkmeyer?"

"Can we do 'recover-the-corpse?'" I asked. (It's basically capture-the-flag, but with someone standing in as a dead body you have to recover from behind enemy lines.)

"As long as I don't have to be the corpse again," Spunkmeyer said. "I'm tired of doing it just because I'm the lightest. Makes it way too easy for 'Ski."

Wierzbowski glared at Spunkmeyer. "Do you think everything involving PT is easy for me? Is that what you think?"

"No . . ." Spunkmeyer gave him a confused look. "What's up with you?"

It was only quiet for about five seconds, but, God, was that silence extraordinarily painful.

Wierzbowski put his fork down, and looked Spunkmeyer in the eye. "Frankly, I'm just about done with your sarcasm, your complaining, and your whining-"

"I think you're talking about Hudson-"

"I'm done with his shit, too! Every last one of you! I can't take it anymore!"

Hicks took a breath.

"You people don't value anything about each other! Y-You just point out what's wrong with the person sitting next to you and you don't appreciate anything they do for you!"

Hicks rubbed his face. "Alright, that's enough, Wierzbowski. Sit down, shut up, make sure you put five dollars in the swear jar after breakfast."

Casey followed me back to my room after breakfast. "Drake, Drake, can I do PT with you guys?"

"No," I said.

"Why not?"

"You have a broken leg, for God's sake!"

"I'll be careful, Drake, please!"

"You can watch."

"I'll give you a quarter."

I looked at him while my toothbrush was in my mouth. "What's a quarter gonna get me, sport? My paycheck is a whole lot more than a quarter." Although it feels like a quarter sometimes.

"I'll make your bed."

"You don't even make your own bed."

"You're hard to bribe, ain't ya."

"Sure am." I spit in the sink, and opened the medicine cabinet to grab the shaving cream.

"Dude, I never seen a thing of antacids that big before."

"I have to be prepared for whatever Bishop puts in front of me at dinner."

"I don't think the food here's that bad. Better than the school lunches. I mean, I bring a lunch from home, but I seen what they serve the other kids. Looks like cow poop sometimes." Casey watched me cover the lower half of my face with shaving cream. "When did you start shaving?"

"Fourteen," I said.

"When should I start shaving?" Casey touched his face.

"When you grow some hair." I glanced at him. "Don't you dare hit puberty while you're here. I'm not giving you that talk."

"What talk?"

"Um . . . the puberty talk. You're only supposed to get that when you hit puberty."

"Some of the kids in my class already started."

"Good for them."

"They said they's started growing hair in their-"

"I said, good for them! No more!"

"-armpits."

I sighed, and just wanted peace and quiet as I finished my shave. It was quiet for a minute or two, and I sensed Casey was observing.

I knew I was going to have to teach my kid how to shave someday. Before I wiped the excess cream off my face, I gestured for Casey to step in front of the mirror. "Alright, I know you're not ready yet, but I'll show you the basics," I said. "Step one, make sure your face is wet. Always use warm water. I had only cold water in boot camp and that's as uncomfortable as having your skivvies riding up your rear end and you can't do anything about it. Warm water's just better, OK? Step two, make sure the brush-the thing you put the cream on-is nice and wet, too. Warm water. Always warm water. Then, put a little bit of the cream on. Not too much or you look like you're getting ready for Santa-Con, and it makes it difficult to see what you're doing-"

"I thought you just sprayed the cream all over your face."

"No." I smirked. "Right, after you get the cream on, you take the razor, make sure it's clean, run it under warm water, and then you shave. Typically start on your cheek, doesn't matter which side, but you tend to start on the non-dominant side of your face-"

"What's that mean?"

"I'm left-handed, so I start on my right cheek. Just a weird thing people do. You can start on the left side if you're left-handed. Doesn't matter at all. You will nick yourself in the beginning. Heck, I still nick myself sometimes, but expect it in the beginning. It hurts, but you'll either get used to it, or learn how to nick yourself less often."

Casey pretended to run an imaginary razor along his face. "It's that simple?"

"Not . . . necessarily. You gotta make sure you do a thorough job, especially if the place you work at has grooming standards. Besides, at a job-any job-you want to look clean and presentable."

"Cool. Thanks, Drake."

I finished drying my face before picking Casey up. For a moment, I looked at myself in the mirror, wondering if I was staring at a future version of myself, holding my own kid. I can't tell you how much I want that day to come. It was an almost painful feeling, like I knew deep down I was ready to be a dad and yet I'm in no position for that right now.

I guess the issue wouldn't be Casey wanting to stay; it was me wanting him to stay. It was going to break my heart when he finally goes home, but I knew that he needed to go home. I'm not his father.

"You sad, Drake?" Casey asked.

"No," I lied. "Why do you ask?"

"You just got really warm and there's tears going down your face."

"I'm OK. Just . . . thinking about stuff you wouldn't understand."

My mind was elsewhere the whole day, and everyone knew it. I ended up explaining everything to Hudson that afternoon when we were alone in the courtyard.

"It just sounds like you really, really care about the kid, man," Hudson replied. "Nothing wrong with that."

"How am I going to let go when he leaves? I can't . . . I can't just quit the Marines, with Vasquez, and go start a family. I can't. I can't end my contract the way you can." I rubbed my face, looking down at the table. Teardrops were spattered on it.

"I think you just gotta accept he's not yours. You'll have your own kids one day, man. I mean, I hate to say it, but do you think Casey's parents are gonna let you stay in contact with him?"

"Why wouldn't they? I haven't done anything wrong-"

"That's not what I'm talking about. Casey's got no friends his age, and you . . . you're not exactly the best influence, mentally and emotionally. Do you think it'd be good for him to continue growing up knowing you, a grown man who was in prison and is suffering from PTSD, are his only friend? I don't think so. He needs to be able to be a kid, 'cause that doesn't last forever, man. He's too young to be burdened with . . . your issues."

"But what if he's suffering-"

"I don't think he is. I've observed him just as much as you have. I think he's gonna bounce back just fine. He'd be a different person if he was suffering right now." Hudson looked at me, gray eyes unblinking. "Trust me, man. I've been around you long enough to know. I know it's gonna hurt, but . . . if you care, man, you'll let go. Deep down, the last thing you want is somebody growing up like you-alone. That's another reason you're not ready for kids, man; you still haven't fully managed your PTSD. If you can't effectively manage that, you'll never be the best dad you can be for your son or daughter." Hudson gripped my arm. "You know I'm not saying this to be mean, right?"

"No, I know." I sighed.

"I think this is also the first time you've really taken care of something or someone, so it's a different experience for you. You'll be able to move on. Who knows? Maybe you'll be able to keep in contact with Casey and he'll still be able to be a normal kid, make friends his own age, and not be . . . a lonely, grumpy old fart like you." Hudson grinned, but I wasn't smiling at all.

"I'd be much happier if you just said 'lonely, grumpy fart,'" I said, folding my arms over my chest.

"Admit it, man, you are developing some 'old man habits.' And I have seen the inside of your medicine cabinet."

With all that taken care of, I decided to focus my energy on setting up a double-date with Vasquez and Ferro and Spunkmeyer. Of course, I still had a couple days before I was allowed off-base, so it gave me some time to think about what we could do.

Naturally, I don't want anyone to get overwhelmed. That shouldn't be too difficult, because we're not having Hudson and Miranda come with us. A small part of me wanted to ask Wierzbowski and Eliza, but I reminded myself that Wierzbowski was in a foul mood right now. Plus, I think Vasquez would be happier with a smaller group. I guess it'd just be simpler to do dinner and come right back to base.

I was overthinking it, to be honest with you. I lay in bed that night, letting my thoughts bombard me every second. Not a new phenomenon for me. Normally, I go to Wierzbowski and talk until I feel sleepy, but I was afraid he was going to throw me out into the hallway.

As the base became more and more silent, I could hear Hudson snoring (of course), and my own heart beating. The clock ticked on, and I tried to push out the sound of my heartbeat, focusing instead on the slow, even snoring of Hudson.

In between Hudson's snores, I heard something else, and it was coming from Wierzbowski's room. I heard what sounded like a suppressed sob, followed by the twisting and popping of a metal cap.

I was dreaming, wasn't I?

Slowly and quietly getting out of bed, I went over to the wall, pressing my ear to it to listen closely. All I heard was more sobbing. Gee, Wierzbowski, maybe you shouldn't have started treating us all like shit. Maybe I'd feel sorry for you, big guy. I did feel sorry for him, though, and that was what prompted me to get my robe and boots on before going next door to see what was going on.

I hoped the sound of a twisting cap was just my imagination playing tricks on me. Dear God, I don't want Wierzbowski to be drinking again . . .

It's not exactly easy to slide open a door silently. Some doors can, but with most, you'll get some type of sound. With the bedroom doors here, no, you can't open it quietly. You can hear it rolling back into the wall, especially when the whole base is quiet.

Wierzbowski reacted swiftly. Before I could say anything, I heard something clatter on the bathroom floor, and then he was towering over me. I flinched as he swung at me. Pear seared through my face when his fist made contact, and I was on the floor, holding my head. Warm wetness suddenly gushed onto my hands from my nose, and it took a brief, but horrifying, moment for me to start breathing through my mouth. Blood was running into my mouth, bathing my tongue with a metallic taste. I was trying not to swallow it, so bloody saliva was dripping from my lips.

I was afraid my nose was broken. I wasn't sure what to do, but something woke up Hicks and he was out in the hall, still tying the band of his robe around his waist. He swore when he saw the blood everywhere and worked quickly to haul my ass down to sick bay.

Dietrich waited for my nose to stop bleeding before gently wiping my face clean and whispering, "Shit," as she tossed away the bloody tissue. "He got you good, Drake."

I wanted to ask if my nose was broken, but I was afraid it'd just start bleeding again.

Dietrich read the look of concern on my face. "It's not broken." She handed me a mirror, revealing a bruise the size of a ping-pong ball under my left eye, right next to my nose. "I guess the force was enough to make it bleed. You're gonna be fine, Drake."

Hicks walked into the room, rubbing his face. "Dietrich, what time is it?"

"It's quarter-past-midnight, Hicks."

"Quarter-past-midnight . . ." Hicks moaned. "You guys are going to push me over the edge someday."

I knew I was going to sound goofy with the massive clot in my nose, so I didn't say anything.

Hicks took a breath. "So, Wierzbowski punched Drake. Drake got a bloody nose."

"The nose isn't broken, so I don't think you need to go through the shit of locking 'Ski up for a day," Dietrich said.

"It's still an assault on a teammate."

"'Ski's been acting weird the last few days, though. What's going on?" Dietrich sounded legitimately concerned.

"Drake said something that pissed him off, and now he's venting his frustrations with everyone in the unit."

"Gee, instead of letting him beat the shit out of everyone, why don't you sit him down with Drake's therapist?"

Hicks put an unlit cigarette in his mouth. "The problem, according to Wierzbowski, is that we spend too much time telling each other what's wrong with each other-"

I coughed. "It's that we don't make him feel good for anythig." I put a clean tissue to my face, making sure I didn't start bleeding again.

"I'd much rather deal with this in the morning," Hicks said. "Wierzbowski will burn himself out eventually."

Question: Do you think Drake would ever feel confident about becoming a father in the future if he never met Casey?