SOLDIER ON Rachel Zinck

Mount Notre Dame High School Fiction

1

The shadow of a soldier looms down the dark alley, the silhouette a strong contrast to the

dull yellow glow of the streetlamp that illuminates the red bricks of the old, worn firehouse. The

shadow slides down walls and across the street…sometimes here, sometimes there, and

sometimes nowhere at all; just an effect of the sporadic lights that line the glistening sidewalk.

This particular night is warm and dark. A light rain accompanies heavy thoughts.

The wet scuff of boots against the cement seems to be much louder than it should, but he

assumes that it’s due to the fact that the streets are empty. A hollow quiet beats against his ears.

No crickets sing their song, no frogs bellow for their mates in the swampy marshlands, and—at

this particular time—no cars make their way down 7th

Street. A pair of exhausted blue eyes scan

the deserted road, and he runs his calloused hand across his rough jaw.

It’s just him, and it occurs to him how long it has been since he’d been truly alone. Years.

Several, long years. He’s not quite sure how he feels about the sudden isolation. It feels foreign.

Many things feel foreign, actually. He wonders if maybe that’s what happens when one fights in

a foreign war.

Up ahead, he hears a heavy bass accompanying the crashes of a drum set, and though he

has no idea what song is playing, a small smile finds its way onto his face. He does know where

the sound is coming from, and it’s good to hear that Murphy seems to be getting some business

again. God knows that the poor, old, optimistic son-of-a-gun had deserved a break.

The soldier thinks of stopping in. He probably should; he knows Murphy would like to

see that he’s made it back alive and in one piece.

Something stops him from going inside, but he pauses outside the bar and takes a

moment to look in the window. The place is surprisingly busy for being in such a small town.

Girls and guys alike have eyes bright with life and alcohol and flirting is thrown callously across

tabletops littered with glasses half-empty and plates half-full. There’s loud music and louder

voices. But he’s able to pick out one above the rest, even though he is standing outside. It’s Greg.

The high, treble voice alone is enough to flood him with memories. Memories of a time

when war was fought with a deck of cards, and politics meant little more than a distant word

used by adults in boring conversations.

….

“I’m older than you are!”

He was seven at the time, all bones and no muscle. Square glasses sat crookedly on his

nose, a cocky grin making his blue eyes bright with pride in such a simple statement. Eventually

he’d learn that a few months in age really did mean very little. But when he was seven, there was

little else for him to gloat about. He supposed he was decent at basketball and math, but they

didn’t quite come close to being the accomplishment that age was.

Greg, on the other hand, was six. He would be turning seven in a few months, but the fact

of the matter was that he wasn’t yet seven. “I’m faster than you are!” Greg declared.

2

The two boys hadn’t met one another before this encounter, which had started innocently

enough. Greg was on his way to the candy store when he saw the other boy’s new bike.

However, even they weren’t entirely sure how they had come to the argument currently

unfolding.

“Yeah right,” the dark haired boy scoffed in reply to Greg’s claim.

“You just don’t want to admit it.”

The mother of the older boy—there was a surprising lack of resemblance between herself

and her son—glanced up from where she sat in the rocking chair on the porch. She recognized

Greg from church as Mrs. Waddell’s youngest boy. She was relatively certain that her son didn’t

remember him, but she remained unconcerned. The Waddells were a nice family.

All the same, she called out to them. “Boys.” Her voice was carrying its usual warm

affection, but the warning in the one word was all too clear.

Greg glanced quickly at her before he drew his freckled face into a determined frown as

his brown eyes sized up his opponent. “I’ll race you.”

“You’re on.” They clasped hands, shaking harder than necessary before letting go.

“Down to the church and back?”

“Hang on.” He looked over his shoulder. “MOM. CAN I RACE HIM TO THE

CHURCH REAL FAST?” His voice, not yet deepened, cut through the sound of lawnmowers

and early afternoon traffic.

The red-headed woman shook her head with a smile. “Alright, but don’t cause Brother

Joe trouble. And stay together, you two!”

“We will!” he called back to her, before smirking at his brown-haired rival. “If you can

keep up,” he added cockily.

Readying himself, Greg bounced on the balls of his feet as he took in deep breaths.

The other boy glanced from the street to the boy beside him, telling himself repeatedly:

You’re faster than he is. “Ready?” he asked.

“On the count of three,” Greg replied with a nod. “One.”

“Two.”

“THREE!”

The two boys took off running. The church was just around the corner, at the other end of

the block. He knew this. He could outrun some skinny six year old kid, especially when it was

such a short distance. Right? Of course he could.

Except he couldn’t.

3

This became clear to him almost as soon as he started running. Greg might have been

younger and smaller, but he was fast. And the seven year old, for all he was, was not. He

managed to keep up with Greg until the corner, but he was already aware that he was going to

lose. He forced a burst of speed in a last desperate attempt to avoid humiliation, but it was futile.

Greg was already taking in heaving gasps for air beside their destination. His hand was firmly

planted against the church brick wall, high up by his head as if to announce I won.

The dark haired boy scowled as he slowed down beside the winner and joined him in

trying to catch their breath. Greg grinned, eyes alight with victory and mischief. It was a look

that the older boy would get to know well in the coming years.

“You’re fast,” he conceded to Greg. “What’s your name?”

“Greg Waddell. What about you?”

“James Sylvester Salamone. But I go by Sylvester.”

Greg nodded, mirroring the cocky smirk that the other boy had been wearing not two

minutes ago. “I won.”

Sylvester rolled his eyes. “I’m older than you.”

….

Sylvester smiles at the memory as he watches his old friend laugh, rubbing a white cloth

along the inside of one of the shot glasses. He seems relaxed behind the mahogany bar as people

fondly shout out his name across the room. His friend slides a shot of something faintly yellow

down the table, picks up someone’s check, and winks at the girl sitting in the third seat down.

Something on the girl’s left hand glints in the dim lighting, and he notices a ring. Less than a

second later, when Greg turns back around, Sylvester sees that he has a matching one on his left.

That catches him off guard, and though he’s happy for his friend, he feels an odd

tightness in his chest knowing that he missed something so important…that Greg never told him.

A part of him wants to stay, to see what else this bar might reveal of the years he’s

missed. But his gaze focuses on his reflection in the window, and the dark blue eyes staring back

remind him of where he is going. He blinks, sighs, and then turns. He walks on, shifting one of

the straps of his backpack further up on his shoulder. The rain is picking up a bit, but he’s too

lost in thought to really notice.

He’s walked maybe three more blocks before a silver Chrysler Sebring pulls up beside

him, and an unfamiliar voice calls out. “Hey, man. You want a lift?”

He stops. Hesitates.

The man looks concerned. “Rain ain’t gonna let up any time soon.”

He waits a moment and thinks, even as the rain is becoming heavier. His dark hair falls

into his face in dripping strings, and he can feel his uniform getting heavier from the water. But

4

tonight, he decides, he likes it. Or maybe he just likes the walk. He’s not sure, but he figures it

doesn’t matter.

“Nah, that’s okay.” He smiles in appreciation. “Means a lot, though, sir.”

“Don’t mention it.” The stranger pulls back onto the road and drives off. Sylvester gazes

after the car. Something about it tugs at his mind: an odd nostalgic familiarity that he can’t quite

place. He knows that the man was a stranger and the license plate was completely foreign. It was

something about the car itself.

His eyes narrow in thought before he takes his right foot forward and approaches the

intersection of 7th

Street and Wixie Road. He stops, looks both ways, and crosses. When he

reaches the other side and finds himself looking down a memorable stretch of road, he

remembers.

….

They were both sixteen that early July, in one of the driest summers the town had seen in

twenty years. It was also one of the hottest, the average temperature for the previous few weeks

managing to sit comfortably in the low nineties. That Friday night, by some terrific work of God,

he had managed to convince his dad to let him drive the silver 2001 Chrysler Sebring

convertible. How he’d done that, he wasn’t sure.

He explained this to the girl sitting next to him in the passenger seat as they drove home

from Greg’s birthday party. The two of them didn’t know one another spectacularly well. Before,

their relationship had mostly consisted of passing each other in the hallway at school, only

distantly aware of the other person’s existence. But then Greg introduced them when he walked

through the door—“Yo, Syl! Meet Emily, my Chem lab partner.”—and then promptly found an

excuse to leave the two of them by themselves.

Sylvester had resented him for that. His capability to talk to girls was only marginally

better than Greg’s capability to pass Geometry.

He realized later that he must have figured it out somehow, or that she knew how to talk

to guys, because he spent the majority of that party talking to her. And after some fiasco with a

can of spray paint—which is an entirely different story—she had found herself in the unfortunate

circumstance of having no way to get home. Sylvester had offered to drive her, and the relief in

her voice was palpable as she accepted.

Sylvester glanced at Emily out of the corner of his eye as he drove. She had natural

blonde hair that was offset by shy green eyes hidden behind rectangular glasses. She wore black

jeans and a light blue T-shirt. She was thin and wiry—more angles and lines than curves. But she

wasn’t unattractive. In fact, Sylvester liked her…a lot.

“You know,” she said after a brief lull in conversation, “you’re driving me home, and it’s

occurred to me that I really don’t know that much about you.”

5

“I’m not a very interesting person,” he admitted, the thick night wind blowing through his

short dark hair. They were surrounded by buildings standard of small southern towns: single

story shops and restaurants lined the street, most of which were closed due to the late hour.

The corner of Emily’s mouth tugged upward slightly. “Sure you are. You have likes,

dislikes, loves, losses…you have a story. Therefore; you’re interesting.” The darkness made it

difficult to tell, but Sylvester would have sworn that her cheeks were reddened slightly.

“Everybody’s interesting,” she added.

Sylvester turned onto Wixie Road, using the change in direction as a means to buy him

some time to think of a response. “What do you want to know?” he finally asked.

“Hm...Favorite color?”

“Orange.”

“Like, a sunset orange or like the color of the fruit?”

“Think carrot orange. But what about you?” He glanced down at the dashboard, and felt

his stomach drop. Beside the speedometer, Sylvester noticed the white needle sitting below E...

and about the same time he heard Emily say purple, he heard the engine give a pathetic sputter.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I’ve gotta stop for gas,” he explained, glad that the darkness covered the

slightly red tinge he knew was beginning to show at the tips of his ears.

“Oh, that’s okay,” she replied easily. “I’m not sure where the next station is—” she cut

herself off as the first rumble of thunder they’d heard in months rolled in the distance.

Two things then happened at once: it began to rain, and the convertible rolled to a stop

and refused to move.

“No.” Sylvester pleaded, pressing on the gas pedal with futile desperation. “No, no, no,

no. C’mon, baby.” He patted the wheel. “Don’t do this.” He was suddenly very aware of the girl

sitting beside him, looking up at the clouds that, a minute ago, had escaped both of their

attention. He felt raindrops land in his hair, and watched them hit the steering wheel and then

drip onto his knee.

That’s it, he thought, in a tone he would later be ashamed to admit came embarrassingly

close to that of the stereotypical whiny teenager. I might as well just crawl under the car at this

point.

He laughed awkwardly. “Um…I’ve just run out of gas…” he rubbed the back of his neck,

glancing at her uncomfortably.

Emily nodded. She looked more amused than annoyed, but Sylvester couldn’t decide if

that was a good thing or not. “I kind of figured,” she said, but not unkindly. “Do you have

somebody you can call?”

6

“My dad,” he replied, turning off the ignition and digging through his pockets for his

cellphone. “I’m sorry about all this,” he told her as he pulled the phone out and dialed the

number.

She shook her head in response. “Don’t worry about it.” She smiled.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Dad. I have a minor problem…”

“Problems are never minor with you, James,” his dad sighed, voice groggy from sleep,

and only then did it occur to the teen that it was nearing one in the morning. “What is it?”

“I was taking this girl home, and…I kind of ran out of gas.”

“Where are you?”

“Near the corner of Wixie and 7th

.” The rain was picking up. The clouds flashed with

distant lightning.

“I’ll be there in about five. Get the top up. It’s raining.”

“The top—” There was a click, and then silence. “Is broken,” Sylvester finished, though

he knew that his dad had just hung up the phone.

Emily looked at him, her glasses spotted with raindrops. “I guess we’re hanging out here

for a while, then?”

“Unfortunately…” There was an uncomfortable silence before Sylvester cleared his

throat. “I’m sorry about this…” he apologized again.

She did something then that Sylvester wasn’t expecting: she laughed. He noticed that her

eyes seemed a bit brighter against the dark, overcast street. “I don’t mind.” She giggled again,

then looked at him apologetically. “I’m not laughing at you. I promise. Just, like, the situation.”

Her laugh was light and genuine and, Sylvester had to admit as he smiled, very

contagious. “There’s an umbrella in the trunk,” he told her. “I’ll get it.”

“I can get it.”

Sylvester reached to open the trunk, but stopped and turned back to look at her. Her light

hair hung around her small face, limp and very wet. “Now, what kind of a gentleman would I be

if I made you get your own umbrella?” He unclicked his seatbelt.

She did the same, opening her door and cocking an eyebrow at him in mock-challenge.

He leaned forward and popped the trunk before scrambling over the top of his door as they both

raced to the back. They reached the trunk at the same time. He grabbed the umbrella a second

before she could, and opened it. He handed it to her.

She took it…and promptly turned it upside down beside her, setting it against the car on

the street.

7

Dumbfounded, Sylvester looked from her to the umbrella and back again. “What?”

She shrugged innocently back. “I thought you wanted it.”

“No…you realize the kind of lecture I would get if my dad saw that I was using the

umbrella while you stood there and got wet?” Sylvester had to raise his voice as the rain

hammered loudly against the car. The sound of it hitting the pavement was almost as loud as the

thunder that was becoming a little too close for comfort.

The corner of her mouth inched upwards in amusement. “The ‘I-thought-I-taught-you-to-

be-a-gentleman’ lecture?” she guessed, also raising her voice.

“Exactly!” They both turned as distant headlights shone in their eyes. “That would be my

dad.” He picked the umbrella up. “Take it,” he told Emily, shoving the handle into her hands.

She pushed it back. “I don’t want it.”

“You’re getting soaked, you know.”

“So are you.”

“Oh, for the love of…” Sylvester rolled his eyes, swinging the umbrella into an upright

position over both of them.

Emily gasped in surprise as a pool of water crashed down on them, drenching them from

head to toe with the rain the umbrella had collected from being upside down. Sylvester—clothes

now dripping with water and hair matted from the sudden shower—closed his eyes and let out a

slow exhale, but had to bite back a smile as Emily burst out laughing.

“Of all the times for an umbrella to backfire…” Sylvester sighed.

Emily grinned at him. “He’s just a different kind of umbrella.”

“Or,” Sylvester added as his dad pulled up behind them, “the world is out to get me

tonight. I’m sorry, again. For all of this,” he said miserably, but offered a small smile.

“Are you kidding, Sylvester?” She smiled softly at him, and glanced at his dad, who went

to the trunk of his own car to grab something. She reached up and kissed his cheek before

quickly looking at her shoes. “This has been the most fun I’ve ever had.”

Sylvester couldn’t help the smile that pulled at his mouth, or the warm feeling spreading

across his cheek where she had kissed him. “Maybe we can do it again sometime?”

“I’d like that.”

…..

The memory brings a bright smile to his face, though—like most of his smiles these

days—it fades quickly. He stands at the corner for a long, silent moment as the rain pours around

him much like it had that night twelve years ago. Back when he was young, awkward, and well-

acquainted with life. Not yet having faced death face-to-face. He misses that.

8

He misses a lot of things. He’s missed a lot of things, a thought that keeps repeating itself

over and over in his mind. Greg got married. The pizza shop off Route 32 closed down. Robbie

died in a car crash, and Tiffany is well on her way to that superstardom she’d always talked

about. They repaved the roads and, according to the sign across the street, his church has got

itself a new preacher.

Life continued on here without him. Sylvester knows that he should feel fortunate that he

made it back to see these changes. That he has a chance to ingratiate himself back into the slow

but progressive life he once lived. He thinks of the men who don’t get that chance, and as

Sylvester pushes himself forward, the irony of it all strikes him. Death is the only thing that stops

life, but life does not stop for death. Very few things stopped for death. He thinks of that poem

by that one woman his mother had liked so much: “Because I could not stop for Death/he kindly

stopped me”. Or something like that.

Even before the war, death was not a stranger to Sylvester: he’d certainly lost people. His

grandmother when he was seventeen. His mother not too long after that. It had been a difficult

year, and he’d almost flunked out of his junior year of high school. Greg and Emily—God bless

them—were some of the few people who stuck by him through it all. Many years later, he still

struggled to make sense of the whys and the hows.

Though Sylvester had always known of the inevitability of death, it never seemed to

make it any easier. Death had never been a good thing, but who would think otherwise? Death is

painful. For those who die, and for those who are left behind. And surely—surely—something

that brings so much pain can’t be a good thing. No matter how “inevitable” it is. Or at least, such

is the way Sylvester thought most of his life.

It’s not until he was sent overseas that he realizes the truth about death.

….

Sylvester was four months into his first year at the base. It was hot and shockingly dry,

and the sand in the air clung to his clothes and stuck in his throat. If there was one thing

Sylvester hated about where he was stationed, it was the climate. He was beginning to wonder if

he’d ever really get used to the change. He never thought he’d be longing for the sticky humidity

that came with his North Carolinian hometown. The 25 year old soldier sighed, coughed, and

kicked a scorpion that was threatening to crawl onto his shoe.

“Can’t escape the little buggers, can you Sylvester?” Jack Tecumseh—a head taller than

Sylvester, dark skin shining with sweat in the heat—stepped up beside him. He grinned. “Ah,

you’ll get used to it eventually.”

“You said that on my first day, Jack.”

“Still true.”

Sylvester shrugged. “Fair enough. Either way, ‘this is not that day’.”

“Nice try, Aragorn.” Jack shoved Sylvester, laughing. “But this ain’t Lord of the Rings.”

9

Sylvester smiled, shaking his head. “Thank God for that. If I had to fight this war with a

sword, I’d get my head sliced clean off.” He smiled humorlessly. “Instead, I’ll get a bullet.”

There was a pause. “Calling Em?” Jack asked suddenly, nodding to the phone and the

people in line for it in front of them.

“Yeah. Hoping she’ll be home.”

Jack looked at him. “She’s…what? Eight months pregnant?” He glanced at his watch.

“It’s seven hundred thirty here, which means it’s twenty-three thirty there. She ought to be

home.”

Sylvester slipped his hand into his pocket and fingered the worn photograph within it as

he watched a fellow soldier hang up the phone, pause, and then walk away. The line shifted

forward. “You don’t know Emily,” he said, chuckling. “Some nights she’s up at 2 in the morning

going to the grocery to try to kick a late night craving. Other nights she’s passed out by the six

o’clock news.”

Jack laughed. “You’re right. I don’t know her. But hey, when we get back, I better get a

chance to change that.”

Sylvester was about to agree when he heard it.

There was no warning.

No siren, no distant gunfire.

Just the soft whoosh of a low flying aircraft. Sylvester had just enough time to realize not

one of ours before there were explosions, dust and objects flying through the air, people

shouting, and bodies falling to the ground. Sylvester, however, more saw than heard this as he

dropped for cover. The blood rushing through his ears and the sudden pounding of his heart

against his ribcage drowned out any other noise.

He thought of his wife. He thought of his unborn baby girl.

As fast as the plane had come, it was gone. The attack was over, just like that, and

suddenly somebody had a hand on his shoulder and was asking “Are you hurt, soldier?”

“No, sir.” Sylvester stayed lying face down for a moment before pushing himself up.

There was a tense, suffocating stillness. He looked around, seeing other men slowly stand up.

Others stayed down. Still others simply sat and stared, wondering what had just happened.

Sylvester was wondering the same thing.

An enemy air strike, he told himself. That was obvious.

He blew out a breath, looking down at his worn boots before his gaze locked onto the

unmoving, unblinking, lifeless brown eyes of Private Jack L. Tecumseh. And before he was fully

aware of what he was doing, Sylvester was on his knees beside his friend, a cry for help tearing

itself through his throat. Footsteps rushed, arms reached, voices barked orders. Sylvester nodded

10

mutely, stepped back, and knew—even before the doc announced with solemn eyes—that he was

gone.

Here one moment, gone the next. Just like the plane.

“Hey.” Sylvester turned his attention to the young soldier that was suddenly beside him,

eyes wide in naïve innocence. “What happened to Jack?”

“He’s dead,” Sylvester told him numbly, listening to the medic explain cause of death.

“Shrapnel sliced his throat.”

He swallowed, looking back at the crowd of men that surrounded his friend before

walking away. He made it around the corner, alone, before he felt his fists clench. He gritted his

teeth and kicked the wall. Hard.

“You break that foot and I won’t let you back in the field.”

Sylvester looked up, cutting off his inner groan when he saw who it was. “Sir.” He

saluted to the commanding officer standing a few feet away.

The older man walked up to him, letting out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry about Jack,

Salamone.”

Lump in his throat, Sylvester lowered his arm and simply nodded. “Any other

casualties?”

“Still being counted,” the officer sighed, taking off his hat. “Truthfully, it’s not as bad as

it could have been.”

His voice was monotone. “Good.” He thought of the men in the plane that attacked them,

and muttered a few choice words under his breath.

The aged officer gave him a dry smile. “You can cuss your way to high heaven. It ain’t

going to change anything.”

Sylvester stopped and glanced back up at the older man. He wasn’t sure what his

expression was showing. He didn’t even know what he was feeling. “I know that, sir.”

“Then why do it?” It was a question he wasn’t expecting. The officer was looking at him,

his eyes both searching and knowing. It puzzled Sylvester: he’d never seen a commanding

officer be so…personal. Sylvester blinked, floundering to come up with an answer to such a

simple question.

“Let me rephrase,” the officer told him. “Why are you here? Why’d you enlist?”

“Well…I want to save lives and serve my country, sir. I want to stop bad things from

happening.” He realized that his answer sounded, perhaps, naïve. But it was the truth.

“Things like Private Tecumseh’s death?”

Sylvester nodded.

11

The officer looked at him. “Son, understand something: death ain’t fair. But in terms of

good or bad…death’s completely neutral. That’s what makes it so terrifying.”

….

Sylvester notices that the rain is—thankfully—beginning to lighten up by the time he

turns the corner onto Welsh Avenue. The clouds are starting to thin out, and he can just barely

make out the moon peeking through them, high up in the sky. The night suddenly seems lighter.

He wonders if maybe it is because he is finally on the same street as his destination.

His pace quickens, his stride lengthens, and his eyes brighten imperceptibly.

He thinks back to those years in the war, but as gunfire flashes behind his eyes and war-

torn screaming echoes distantly in his ears, he pushes the memories back. He knows—or

hopes—that one day it won’t hurt so much to remember. That the memories of what he’d seen

and what he’d done won’t haunt him in his dreams. He likes to think that day is soon. Maybe it

is. He doesn’t know.

Sylvester sees the house a few mailboxes away, distantly blurred by the still-falling rain.

His pace suddenly slows. There’s a light shining from the third window on the second floor.

They’re both awake, even at this ungodly hour. Indecision and conflicting emotions—ones that

Sylvester is too exhausted to examine closely—twist his stomach into tight knots. He almost

stops walking. Almost.

Instead, something propels him forward. You came all this way, you aren’t turning back

now, he tells himself. But even in his head, the voice wavers slightly.

He reaches the end of the driveway and stops for a moment. He suddenly remembers the

poem. It was by Emily Dickinson. “Because I could not stop for Death/he kindly stopped for

me.” Those were the words.

He stares up at the house. Not much has changed. In the years he’s been gone, she’s still

kept the door that terrible shade of green. The mailbox is still a mismatching blue. The railing on

the front porch has not changed from the dilapidated state of disrepair it was in when he left. He

should fix that.

He takes in a deep breath and is about to start forward before he notices the curtain pull

back in the alighted window and she sees him. Recognition dawns slowly on her face. She looks

at him, questions bouncing rapidly in her eyes, and brings a hand up to cover her mouth. Feeling

young and awkward again, he smiles. Offers her a small wave. She turns from the window, and

he strides up the driveway. He picks up the key that is always underneath the mat and unlocks

the door.

She’s standing there waiting for him, green eyes glistening with disbelieving tears. A

small girl—she has her mother’s hair and her father’s eyes—peeks around Emily’s legs.

“Daddy?”

Her voice is beautiful. Something catches in Sylvester’s throat.

12

“Hi there, kiddo. Nice to finally meet you.”

Emily and Sylvester both watch as the three year old bravely steps out from behind her

mother and walks towards him. He crouches down to her eye level. She smiles.

Unsure of himself, Sylvester gives her a hesitant smile in return. She wraps small arms

around his neck in a hug, and Sylvester picks her up in his arms, burying his face in the crook of

his daughter’s neck. Emily steps up and places a hand on his shoulder. He wraps a free arm

around his wife, pulls her close, and feels the tears spill over.

He stands like that for a very, very long time. And he thinks that—just maybe—he might

be okay after all.