I managed to get rid of the flask as discreetly as possible. There's a garbage room where every unit goes to drop the giant plastic bags of crap into a massive chute, which leads to a dumpster, which is picked up by a truck once a week. No one is gonna know.

I volunteered to take the garbage from the men's room down to the dump hall. No one gave me a second glance as I wheeled the large can down the hall. Only I knew that there was a concealed flask buried in it. Of course, it was a challenge trying to tip the thing into the chute with one arm, but I did it.

You may be surprised to hear that the guilt I felt for discarding the flask without saying anything to Apone was minimal. I was determined to help Wierzbowski on my own. I felt like this was the way to prove to myself that I was capable of being in a leadership role.

In the meantime, we weren't allowed into the grill in just our tank tops and T-shirts, so before we headed out for that evening, we had to put on our jackets. Mine was folded up in my rack, so I got to go down and see Hudson and Spunkmeyer.

And Hicks's rack. It was still very neat, and it still made my heart feel heavy. I really did miss him, but at the same time, I didn't know how he would've handled finding a flask in the bathroom. It would've upset him pretty bad, and he probably would've outright embarrassed Wierzbowski. I can see the glare in Hicks's eyes now.

Hudson helped me get my jacket on with my sling, and then asked if I was going to sit with him at the grill.

"Are you going to be a moron the whole time?" I asked.

"What? You don't want us having any kinda fun, man?" Hudson snorted.

"You heard what Apone said," Spunkmeyer muttered. "No extra booze."

Hudson didn't reply, but he did give me a dirty look. "I've been real nice to you, man. The least you could do is leave me alone and let me have fun with some of my other friends."

"Don't come crying to me when you do something you regret," I snarled. That's fine. I'll be sitting with Wierzbowski, keeping him company.

I really hoped no one did anything stupid that night, and yet, I just didn't care. That mix of feelings-being worried about Hudson making a fool of himself in front of officers and NCOs, and simply not caring because I didn't want to worry anymore-was creating a bad concoction in the pit of my stomach.

When I left the room, I went next door, where Frost, Crowe, and Wierzbowski were zipping up their jackets and grabbing things they needed. I greatly appreciated Wierzbowski smiling when he saw me, but I didn't let anyone see it on my face. Good practice for when I have to conceal everything in front of everyone in a few minutes.

"Do you need something, Drake?" he asked.

"Just . . . seeing if everyone's ready," I said.

Wierzbowski didn't say anything as he walked out into the hall, gently taking my shoulder. "You look like something's bothering you."

"I don't want to fucking go. I really don't. I don't care that this is a reward. I don't want to go." I tried to keep my anger under control, letting it leak out slowly.

"I don't think you have to go if you don't want to-"

"I'm doing Hicks's job. I have to go."

"Frost and Vasquez-"

"Doesn't matter. I don't have a choice."

"Drake, relax for a minute, alright? Just . . . say something to Apone if you really don't want to go."

"No. He's gonna tell me to go anyway, that I can't keep running away from everything that makes me uncomfortable. And you know what? He's right."

I could tell Wierzbowski felt sorry for me, but he also appeared as though he knew there was more roiling beneath my surface. He wasn't sure what to say, so he shrugged before turning back to go in his room.

That was when Apone called us all down to the hall outside the public area of the base. He looked us over, and told me, Vasquez, and Frost to walk in front as we headed into the passageway. I actually felt kinda sick as we entered the next complex, even though Apone was doing all the talking and directing.

A captain walked by us, and something cold clenched in my gut. I tried to let my face relax, but I refused to give him the impression that I had anything wrong with me.

"Where're you guys and girls headed?" The captain gave us a warm smile.

"Oh, we did a good job at cleaning the bathroom, so we get to eat at the grill tonight, man," Hudson said.

The captain's smile stayed, but it seemed to morph into something a tad more pitiful. "Yeah. Enjoy yourselves, because that's the last time any of y'all are going, unless you got plans to get NCO or higher. Have a good evening, fellas." He left, and I felt as though the already-cold mix of emotions were beginning to freeze to the inside of my stomach.

The grill was kinda what you'd expect any ordinary civvie establishment would look like. It smelled really smoky and warm and there was music playing on one end and sports on the other. The bar was a circular counter, and a guy was walking around a large display of beers and wines and whiskeys, among other liquors, to get people's orders. The waiters and waitresses (all civilians) were bustling in and out of two doors leading to the kitchen in back. Officers, NCOs, and their families were seated at booths and tables all over the place.

I instinctively went toward a corner booth, with a window looking out into the central part of the public complex. No one would see me there, right? I was alone for only a few minutes, but an overwhelming sense of sadness and fear crashed over me like a giant wave.

I really did try to gauge those feelings, like Ranelli said. Were they genuine, or were they part of my PTSD? Even if they are part of my PTSD, I can't dismiss them.

A waitress was going around, handing menus to the others. Somehow, she skipped over me, going right to the next table. Now, a normal person would speak up. I didn't, and I cursed myself, because I knew this meant I was letting my emotions control me.

Well, like I said, I wasn't alone for very long. Eventually, Wierzbowski came and sat across from me, and Vasquez sat next to me. We heard laughter, and looked over at the other end of the diner to see the rest of the unit all sitting at one table. A dull ache began creeping into my heart.

"Don't worry about them, Drake," Wierzbowski said.

"They didn't even ask where you were, so, don't pay them a second glance," Vasquez added. "Are you OK?"

"For now, yeah," I replied. "I'm . . . I'm just-"

"No, Hudson didn't ask, either."

"I knew that. It's my fault anyway."

We looked up again when Ferro walked over, and sat next to Wierzbowski. "Hey, guys. Mind if I join you?"

"Go ahead," I said.

"Did . . . you and Hudson have a fight?"

"Not exactly. Why?"

"Well, I asked if he wanted you to join everyone else, and he said, 'No, he'll ruin everything. Let's just ignore him and have fun for once, man.'"

The ache suddenly ruptured, leaving cracks all over my heart. "He really said that, didn't he?"

"I don't think he means it," Wierzbowski said. "He'll probably apologize when we go back in a few hours. Besides, you have us."

Finally, the waitress came back around with menus, and asked what we wanted to drink and whether or not we wanted an appetizer. Almost as soon as we got our drinks, Spunkmeyer approached us, sighing while grabbing a chair to sit at the booth. "You don't mind I sit with yous, right?"

"Not at all. The more, the merrier," I replied.

"Well, good, because I ain't dealing with Hudson and Frost's shit anymore. You can only hear about crappy dates and sex for so long before you decide, 'I'm done. You two suck at love.' Besides, they won't let anyone else talk."

"Felt a little left out?"

"Pretty much." Spunkmeyer looked at me. "By the way, Drake, I'm sorry for calling you an 'asshole,' yesterday. You're just doing what you're told to do. I mean, you're right, I'd never talk back that way to Hicks."

"Isn't he getting out tomorrow morning?" Wierzbowski asked.

"I heard he might get out tonight. All depends on behavior," Ferro said.

I sighed. "Whenever he gets out, be nice to him. He's probably not gonna be feeling good."

"It's not like they shut you in and turn the lights off the whole time," Spunkmeyer replied.

"You've been to the brig?"

"I wasn't in the brig, but I did have chow duty on my first base right after I got outta training, so I had to wheel trays of food down to the cellblock and give the guys their meals. There's no windows, just big lights in every little cell. It's kinda dingy and the only sound you really hear is the buzzing from the fucking light and the other guys breathing. Every cell is the same. One bed, one toilet, and when you gotta go, you pretty much have to go in front of the guy across the hall. I'm looking around, and I says, 'Jesus Christmas, I can't shit with somebody watching me.' And then a guard says, 'When you gotta go, you gotta go.'"

Ferro grinned a little. "No, he really won't shit if someone is near him."

"I'm serious! I can't!" Spunkmeyer laughed. "Like, if I hear somebody enter the restroom when I'm in there, my body's like, 'Uh, nope!' and I can't do anything."

I took a sip of my whiskey. "Gee, maybe you can join me and Hicks as the mentally ill in this unit. I've got PTSD, he's got bipolar two, and you have anxiety."

Now Spunkmeyer was crowing with laughter. "That's pretty good, Drake! Yeah . . . maybe. Maybe. I don't think it's a major issue with me, though. It's just a quirk I've had since I was little."

"Honestly, you are one big quirk sometimes," Ferro said, giving Spunkmeyer a playful nudge.

I've never had this kind of interaction with Spunkmeyer before. It was nice to have him talk to me like I was an old friend, and I decided not to divert the conversation into something that could potentially hurt that feeling. It was even nicer that people were sitting with me, and not looking depressed. I was able to laugh and smile, and just . . . feel happy.

I wasn't wearing a mask. That was probably the best part. I wasn't suffering the pain of maintaining something I wasn't feeling. I was actually happy.

Being happy can be exhausting, especially when paired with laughter. I learned quite a bit about Spunkmeyer that night, and I've never really seen him in this good of a mood before. There was a point, however, where I stopped laughing. I stopped smiling. I stopped responding. I had no more energy for it.

I found myself on the verge of a crash, and I wasn't sure what to do about it. Do I put the mask on? Do I say something?

The last thing I wanted to do was go hide in the bathroom, but I felt like I didn't have a choice there. I told Vasquez I needed to get up, and she moved to let me out of the booth. In order to get to the restroom, I had to go by the table where everyone else in the unit was sitting. Hudson was clearly tipsy, and slurring on to Frost about . . . well, me, of all things.

I had no energy to do or say anything. I walked into the restroom, and locked myself in a stall. To keep people from thinking there was someone in there, I sat on the back of the toilet, so no one saw my boots and would hopefully think the stall was out of order. The lid and seat were up, so my tears were dripping down into the toilet water.

Several long minutes went by before I heard the door open, and a familiar accented voice say, "Drake? Is everything alright?"

I really didn't want to explode on Wierzbowski. Not at all. "Is there anyone else in here?" I asked.

"No. It's just the two of us," he replied. "The others're getting worried about you. Something not agreeing with you?"

I swallowed past a lump in my throat. "No, that's not it."

"Can you come out, please?"

"Why?"

"Because I don't think you're in here because you like sitting alone in the restroom."

I sighed, and unlocked the stall.

"You looked like you were actually enjoying yourself, Drake. What happened?"

"I crashed. I can't . . . I can't be happy for long periods of time. It's like I never have enough energy for it."

The look on Wierzbowski's face told me he had no idea how to help with that. We both knew how he dealt with his sadness, and we both knew that it wasn't going to solve anything.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I know I'm . . . I'm ruining everyone's fun. That's why people would rather sit with Hudson. He doesn't weigh them down with emotional problems or emit this nasty air of frustration and sadness and anger."

"Drake, do me a favor, and look past your fog of issues for just one minute. Did you hear Spunkmeyer talking at our table? I haven't heard him that happy or open in a long time, and I don't think you have, either. He didn't . . . He didn't observe you before opening his mouth; he just went right on talking. We all do understand what's going on with you right now. Granted, none of us are suffering what you have, but, we've all got our own little problems, and we know that you need an extra ounce of care. That being said, you're not unbearable to be around. You keep secrets, you're very understanding, and you let people vent or talk when they want to. I would never have told you about my past or readily admitted my problems if I didn't feel like I could trust you. People do trust you, and they do like you. Hell, I just said that the others are worried about you, wondering what's taking you so long."

"Yeah, you did say that," I sighed.

"So, come on out. Come join us. Be amongst friends."

I had to smile, just a little, at that. I did leave the stall, and the restroom, and followed Wierzbowski back out to our table.

Spunkmeyer tugged on my sleeve as I sat down. "Drake, Drake, Drake, I gotta ask you something-first, you doing OK?"

"For now, yeah," I said.

"Good. OK, now, Ferro says that the first thing everyone-guys and girls-judges when they look for a date is somebody's appearance, but guys will do it more often. I say, that's not true, because girls will go on about how hot a guy is before actually approaching them. Whaddaya think?"

"I think it depends on the person. I study body language before approaching someone."

"He's right. It does depend on the person," Ferro replied.

Spunkmeyer looked at her with mock annoyance. "Oh, you'll agree with him, but not me? You're killing me, lady."

"I'm not the one who started this topic."

"Hey, Drake's thoughts are completely valid here, because we don't have Frost telling him he's not valid simply because he's never gone on a date in his life."

"Actually, I have gone on dates, but I've changed a lot since then," I said. "All in high school. I don't remember any of them."

"Have you tried since you got in here?"

"In the Marines? No . . . not really. There's just a lot I feel like I need to do with myself before . . . before wading into the pool of romantic aspirations." I glanced at Vasquez, who seemed pleased with my cover-up.

"Yeah, to be honest, I really haven't gone for anything serious, either. I probably should. I'm still young. If I try, I'll find my forever girl."

"You mean you and Ferro aren't a thing?" Vasquez asked.

"Listen, we work well together, but we probably shouldn't be in bed together. If we had any romantic problems, we wouldn't want it to bleed into our professional life. Every nitpick we have with each other would be multiplied by a thousand."

"That's when you sit down and work out your problems with each other," I said. "I don't think it's impossible."

"Well, our minds are made up. Plus, we just don't have those kinda feelings for each other. It's more of a brother-sister thing that we have. You know, I was the only one who had any faith in her when we were in flight training. We had the most brutal instructor you could ever have in anything. She was a complete and total-" Spunkmeyer lowered his voice, "bitch. She had a fucking complaint for everything, and she would not let it go the whole day. Here's Ferro, trying to learn something, and she keeps getting told that she's doing it wrong, with no fucking clue what specifically. She would go back to her quarters every single night crying, certain she would be kicked out-"

Ferro rolled her eyes. "It wasn't 'every single night.' I eventually got used to that shit."

"Anyway, I was the one keeping her spirits up and whatnot. We started working together more and more during the day, and one of the other instructors-this older gentleman who had about twenty years and four ranks over the crazy woman-looked at us and said, 'I don't want them separated. Put them in the same unit together.' And here we are."

I found myself smiling. "So, you two have been pilot and co-pilot since the beginning?"

"I wouldn't say 'since the beginning.'" Spunkmeyer looked at Ferro. "You were assigned to this other girl that annoyed you a bit, right?"

Ferro nodded. "We couldn't work together, period. It took me awhile to request you as my new partner. Your partner wasn't any better."

"Actually, he was OK. He once called me a dimwitted fuck-face, but he was at least competent at what he was doing."

"Why did he call you a dimwitted fuck-face?" I asked.

"Oh, who the hell knows? I certainly don't care anymore." Spunkmeyer grinned. "But I've remembered it to throw it at some people here."

"Yeah. Including me," I muttered.

"Hey, I did apologize for calling you an asshole yesterday. You're really not a bad guy, Drake. Hell-" Spunkmeyer leaned in to whisper, "even though Hudson's been a bit of a jerk tonight, he still loves you like a brother, and he misses you above his bunk. He misses having somebody to talk to when he can't fall asleep."

"He doesn't talk to you?"

"I'm usually out before my head hits the pillow. Besides, you're his best friend. I'm pretty sure there's a lot of stuff he's only comfortable talking to you about."

I found myself nodding. "That's . . . true."

"Listen, I know we've had a couple of rough patches in the past, bud, and I know tonight seems kinda odd and outta-the-blue for me to suddenly say, 'I'm sorry for being a dick,' but it's something that had to be done. I know you're dealing with shit right now, and you probably don't want to deal with anyone, you know, pushing you away and acting like you're a piece of crap. Plus, I did say earlier that I got tired of listening to Hudson and Frost, and I just . . . I just . . ." At that point, it appeared as though Spunkmeyer ran out of gas. He paused to collect himself, looking down at his drink, and then switching his gaze between everyone at the table.

"You OK?" I asked.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm alright. I'm . . . sorry. I was trying to say that I really didn't want tonight to be like every other night I get to go out with people. Y-You've seen me in the mess hall. The others would start looking at me funny if I managed to cut my way into a conversation and talk my head off."

"It sounded like you just needed an audience," Wierzbowski replied. "We all do, sometimes."

"I got tired of being shut out, that's all. I hope I didn't screw over any conversations you guys were planning on having."

"Are you kidding? I thought I was going to be alone and miserable the whole night," I said.

"I sure as fuck didn't want to be listening to Hudson all night," Ferro added.

"None of us did," Vasquez sighed. "I actually enjoyed listening to you, Spunkmeyer."

"You never enjoy anything, though." I smirked.

"That's not true."

The conversations died down by the time we ordered our desserts. At one point, I said, "Can anyone see what's going on at the other table?"

Spunkmeyer glanced over. "It's a little quieter. I think Hudson stopped chitchatting when he saw his food coming." He looked again. "That is one monster sundae he's got there."

"Hot fudge and everything?"

"Oh, yeah. Hot fudge, nuts, chocolate chips, and-he's pouring bourbon on it, too."

"Is he drunk?"

"I can't tell."

I shrugged. "He's probably got glassy eyes and a full stomach, and he's Goddamn happy. I'm not gonna bother him."

"If you want, I can talk to him when we go back to quarters."

"It'd be best if I talked to him tomorrow. Or the day after. God only knows how hungover he's gonna be in the morning."

"Well, if you need somebody to play mediator, my door's open."

"Thanks." I weakly smiled.

Something moved in the corner of my eye, and I got the feeling we were being watched. Finally, I turned to my right, and saw a gaunt Hicks staring at us through the window.

Question: Compared to Hicks and Hudson, is Wierzbowski better or worse at getting Drake to quit hiding whenever he feels uncomfortable?

Author's Note: This chapter is a great example of letting one character steal the show. It's really up to the reader whether or not this was a good way to develop Spunkmeyer or if I should reined him in better.

I really liked writing him, though, but he was tricky at first. The website TVTropes describes him as having a very broad New York accent, and, yeah, if you listen to him in the movie, he does. I took that and ran with it by adding a layer of "fast-talking New Yorker" to his character. Man, was it fun.