"Corporal," the voice is insistent, digging into my head like a power drill, "Corporal Conlon," it repeats.

I drag my eyelids open. It takes so much effort that I start to feel myself slip back under. I fight it, push that familiar, drug-induced fog away. I gotta find out where I am. I know I ain't dead, unless this is hell. There's way too much pain, the lights are too bright, it smells too sterile.

"Corporal Conlon," the damn voice ain't letting up. I try to say something back, but there's some kind of tube down my throat. For a second I panic and my whole throat tightens around it. It burns like hell. I force myself to relax and pull it out. The minute it pops out of my mouth, my whole chest starts to compress, like it's still on fire. I swallow, coating my dry throat.

"Yeah?" My voice sounds like I've been gargling with sandpaper.

"He's awake," the voice announces.

"Oh thank God," another voice, a deeper one, speaks, "it's been what—three days?"

"Does anyone know?" the first voice asks.

"No. We would have heard by now." I decide I don't like the sound of the second voice at all.

"Is he going to make it?"

"Corporal Conlon, are you aware of where you are?" the voice I'm really starting to hate asks me. I blink and things start coming into focus, like when I used to turn the knobs on the old TV when I was a kid.

"The hospital," I grind out. It's an obvious guess, but voice number two looks pleased. He's a big son of a bitch with short graying hair. Looks like someone high up, maybe a Sergeant Major. One look at the insignia on his arm confirms it. The high ups never make trips down here unless something bad or big happens. I'm guessing I fall into both of those categories.

"You've been out a long time, Corporal. We were getting worried," he tells me.

"What happened to my boys?" I don't give a shit about what they're doing here.

"They're back at base, being taken care of." The first voice belongs to a woman. I have to double take to make sure. Her hair is pulled so hard back that she could pass for a man. There ain't too much feminine 'bout her, but those lumps in the front of her uniform could be tits, I guess.

"Why ain't I with them?" It's hard to be polite when I feel like there's a knife stuck somewhere up under my armpit.

"You rank higher, Corporal. You'll be receiving better care," the woman says.

I know what this is all about. They don't want me dying. If half of what Nicole says is true, if I kick the bucket out here, it's gonna get back to the US quick. And I'm bettin' they don't want that to happen. That won't look good for the Corps at all.

"We need to debrief you," the man tells me. I don't answer but he keeps right on talking. He tells me about the car bomb, about the 12 people who died. Only 4 of them were ours. He seems real pleased about it. But I know them other 8 were in those houses, women, elderly, maybe even kids. The thought makes me sick.

"A large number of civilians reported that a Marine pulled them out of their houses after the bomb went off," both the man and woman give me a long look. "Would you know anything about that, Corporal?"

They're gonna want to pin a medal on me, make it into a media circus. I ain't never wanted a medal for doin' what's right. I damn sure don't want one now.

"No sir, I don't remember anything about the explosion."

They continue staring at me, bothering me, trying to bully me into details. But I ain't talking about it. I want to know what happened to Drew, to the boys I was in charge of.

"The private, Andrew Edgar?" the woman asks. She checks some huge folder she brought with her. "He has some facial scarring. Might lose some of the dexterity in his right arm. But he'll live." She says it all proper like that, like she's reading sports scores. I feel my temper start to flare up. I gotta keep it together.

"I'd like to talk to them, if that's all right," I tell her.

"We can't let you, Corporal. You are under strict orders. But we can take a message," the man says. They smile at me, like they're doing me a favor. I swallow my rude comment.

"Tell 'em to keep their heads up. Tell 'em I asked about 'em," I ain't going to tell these two anything sensitive. But I want the boys to know I ain't leaving them on my own.

"I'll be sure to pass the message along." The man pats my leg. I want to grab his arm and toss it back at him. But I sit still.

"Get better, Corporal. That is what you have to focus on now. Don't worry about letters. Inform your family that you are doing well."

"I want to talk to my Pop," it ain't a request. I must look as pissed as I feel 'cause them two take a real hard look at each other.

"We can allow that," the man says.

A couple minutes later and they've dragged a phone over to my bed. I can't even lift it with my right hand. I balance it on my left shoulder. Even moving to tilt my head hurts like hell. But I gotta make this call myself.

"Hello?" I would know Pop's voice anywhere.

"'Hey Pop. It's me."

"Tommy!" Pop sounds happier to hear from me than I thought he would. I feel a little bad. I shoulda called him more. "How are you son? Staying safe?"

"Actually Pop," I clear my throat. I'm nervous that these guys are watchin' me. "I got in a little trouble."

"Like last time?" Pop sounds worried.

"Nah," I know this conversation is being recorded. I keep it vague. "Got a little scratched up. I can't tell ya too much, but I'm all right."

"Scratched up? Tommy, are ya—"

"I swear I'm fine, Pop. Tell Brendan, ok? You guys won't be hearing from me for a while. But I'm ok. I'll write you when I can."

Pop mumbles something that sounds a lot like "I love you." I feel my throat get real tight.

"Take care, Pop. Tell Brendan…" I have to force the words out, "tell him I love him. And you too, all right?"

Pop's voice gets real quiet. "Yeah, son. I'll do that."

I hang up before I can do something fruity like start crying. By the time the man and woman clear out of my room, the nurses come sweepin' in. They lift me up and poke and prod at me, mumbling shit to themselves that barely sounds like English.

"What happened to me?" I ask them.

Some giggly girl that barely looks like she finished high school looks at me like I'm a goddamn movie star. I don't have time for this shit. It must show on my face, 'cause she runs for whoever's in charge. The lady in charge comes in, clipboard in hand and lays it all down for me, no bullshit. I took a whole bunch of hot, twisted, filthy metal to the chest. Went into my neck and down my side and arm. I'm lucky it missed my heart. They've gotten all the debris out, but there are burns and there might be infection. I gotta lay real still until my body starts sewing itself back up.

"You're very lucky, Corporal Conlon," she tells me.

I don't say nothing. Anyone who thinks I'm lucky ain't never been in an explosion before.

My room is all cushy. I get good food, cable TV. I don't want none of it. I ask a nurse for my book. She looks confused, but then pulls out a bag with all my stuff in it. I go through it the best I can with my left hand till I find it. Nicole's picture is a little bent, but it's still ok. I'm pissed that I can't write though. I'm thinking about it when the nurse gives me a surprise.

"These are for you, sir," that little girly nurse is back with a stack of envelopes in her hand.

I recognize the swirly handwriting.

Tommy,

I know you probably will not get these until you get back from whatever important thing it is that you are doing, but I wanted to write anyway.

Your Eagles are hitting a little bit of a rough patch, but I'm sure they will pick it back up. It is frigid over here. Standing on the field sometimes feels like hell. The sprinklers under the grass are filled with icy water. It makes the cold seep up through your shoes and into your legs. I'm glad I don't have to wear heels on the field. Sneakers are warmer and infinitely more comfortable.

I have started a countdown until you get back. 128 days. It seems a lot longer in number form.

Miss you,

Nicole

Tommy,

I tried to decorate my house for Halloween. My neighbors always go all out. They have a full-sized haunted house in their front yard. They turn it on at night; all I can hear when I am trying to sleep is spooky music and kids screaming. It is starting to take a toll. I had some sort of half-assed plan to keep up with them, but I think I might just install a flood light that points right at their yard. Do you think that's overkill?

I went with the boxer costume, but I don't look nearly as good in it as you do. Maybe if I get some tattoos…What do you think?

119 days to go.

Nicole

Tommy,

I think your dreams might be spreading. I had one about you. It felt so real. I was so angry when I woke up alone. Having you in real life is better than any dream, but for now, I'll take what I can get. It is a good thing I live alone. Roommates might start to wonder why I have started moaning in my sleep.

I hope you are ok, whatever you are doing. I know you told me not to worry, but you might as well tell a fish not to swim. You are never far from my thoughts and prayers. Stay safe, Tommy.

108 days to go.

Nicole

Tommy,

Did you know that they are going to turn the Sparta tournament into an annual thing? The purse is even bigger this year. They are saying somewhere around 7 million dollars. All people can talk about is whether you are going to fight in it or not. I bet the sponsors would pay you whatever you wanted. Not that I think you should sell out. I just thought you would want to know.

I watched some of your tapes from high school. You were good, even then. It is a blessing to have a natural talent like that. It's a shame you can't use it right now. How are the lessons with your boys going? Are they getting any better? I could send you some instructional tapes, if you would like. You might get a kick out of them at least. They were filmed sometime in the 70s. Everyone has a glorious porn-stache. What an ugly era. I doubt even you would look good with a handlebar pedo-stache.

I miss your letters. This is like torture. I do not mean to complain; after all, you are the one doing all of the hard work. I'm just reiterating how much I miss you. You know, in case you haven't picked up on it already.

I have a kiss saved up for you. I can't wait to give it to you.

100 days to go. You are almost there.

Nicole

I look at the dates. They're all from before Halloween. None have come since. A week goes by, then two. No more letters show up. I can't write to her, can't call her, can't even tell Pop or Brendan to get a message to her. She probably thinks the worst. My last letter was the beginning of October and it's damn near the middle of November.

It's like being in prison. I eat when they bring food. The TV stays on all the time, but I don't watch it. I just stew in anger, pissed at the world. It helps dull the pain. I refuse the pills they keep trying to force down my throat. They make me foggy, stupid. I want to feel it, feel it all. If I focus on that then I don't have to think that there's a girl and a family across the pond worrying about me. I don't have to think that Nicole is probably mad at me, probably moving on with somebody else. Maybe that guy Gavin she wrote about. I don't want no one else touching her, don't want her kissing some other guy.

I wanna pound something, scream, cuss. But I sit quietly, waiting.

The smaller cuts close up, but the big ones are a problem. They keep ripping open, tearing right through the stitches. Hurts like hell. They've got me in therapy, moving so my arm doesn't get stiff. I start losing weight, slipping out of fighting shape. The other Sparta guys are workin' out right now, getting huge, going to sleep at night with some pretty young thing. It ain't fair.

I stay in my pity party so long that it starts to feel normal. When I finally am allowed to get up, I exercise the best I can. It makes me feel better, even if I can't do one pushup. The nurses watch me. They say they're monitoring. I don't call 'em on their lie. Any company is welcome now.

I'm doing wall sits in front of the tube when something catches my eye. The president is giving some speech. I stop what I'm doing to listen. He's telling the world that we're pulling out of Afghanistan, that he's bringing us home. He says it'll be before New Years.

That cuts 58 days out of the countdown. All I can think of is going home, seeing Pop, Brendan. Seeing Nicole. Maybe I can win her back.

I swallow the anger and start makin' plans. I ain't goin' into this blind.


Thank you so much for all of the support and kind words and encouragement, especially to those of you who review and my beta, Tallulah. Review please!