The truck rolled to a stop with a long hiss of brakes. Engine died slow, like it was tired of the fight. The vibration quit. Silence pressed in—just wind against canvas and someone breathing too fast across from me.

  Flaps ripped open. Gray light stabbed in. Cold followed.

  A checkpoint—two Humvees nose-to-nose across the road, sandbags between, razor wire draped loose. Three soldiers waited. Helmets low. Rifles slung but ready. One had a flashlight sweeping the bed.

  "Body out." Flat. No greeting. "Conscript transport. Keep the rest seated."

  No one moved. Then the soldier who'd been kneeling over Mike stood. Hands crusted dark. He didn't look at us. Just stepped to the tailgate.

  Checkpoint guys climbed up. Boots thudded. One grabbed Mike under the arms, the other under the knees. The body slid—wet scrape, blood streaking fresh over old. Mike's head lolled, mouth open, eyes cloudy and fixed.

  They lifted him down like a bag of feed. No words. The soldier followed off the tailgate. Walked beside them as they carried Mike to the ditch off the shoulder. Laid him down. One checkpoint guy shook out a poncho liner, draped it over. Green nylon settled flat. Wind caught the edge once, then quit.

  The soldier knelt. Forehead to the poncho. Shoulders jerked once.

  One of the checkpoint guys put a hand on his shoulder. Said something low. The soldier nodded. Stood. Walked with them toward the Humvees. Didn't look back.

  No one else left. Checkpoint guys swept the bed once more—faces, hands, nothing else. One banged the side panel. "Clear. Move out. Scouts west. Don't stop again till Indy."

  Flaps dropped. Darkness closed.

  The truck lurched. Tires caught pavement. We rolled.

  The space where Mike had been felt bigger. Empty in a way that made the whole bed wrong. The bloodstain stayed—dark oval, edges flaking—but the weight was gone. No body to stare at. No soldier pressing uselessly. Just the stain and the smell clinging to canvas.

  The soldier was gone too. He'd walked off with them. Left with Mike or whatever was left of him. I didn't watch. I didn't need to.

  I stared at the empty spot.

  Games taught me bodies stay. You loot them, step over, reload if you die. Black screen. Try again. This wasn't that. They took him. Draped poncho. Left him like roadside trash. No reload. No checkpoint save. Just gone.

  The soldier who'd called him friend was probably standing in that ditch right now. Or walking toward whatever unit took Mike. Or just standing there.

  I'd never know.

  The truck rolled on. The empty spot in the boards stared back. Bloodstain dull and black now.

  Ethan.

  My brother.

  I hadn't thought about him. Not once. Not on the porch. Not when they pulled me away. Not when Mom screamed. Not when Julia cried. Not when Mike bled out right here. Not until this moment, with the truck moving and the road taking me farther from everything.

  If they came back for him. Same way they came for me. Grabbed him. Shoved him. Dragged him. Put him in a truck. Left whoever was left on the porch.

  Or maybe he fought. Maybe they shot him. Maybe he's gone.

  I swallowed. Throat thick.

  The truck hit a bump. My shoulder knocked the bench.

  It hurt.

  Some Time Later.

  The skinny kid across from me, he one who'd rocked back and forth earlier—spoke first. Voice small, cracking.

  The skinny kid across from me—the one who'd rocked back and forth earlier—spoke first. Voice small, cracking.

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  "Anyone know how far it is?"

  No one answered right away. The older man with the tattoo on his forearm spat over the side. "Far enough that we'll wish it was farther."

  The skinny kid swallowed. "You think they'll let us call home?"

  Another man—fifties, thick arms, gray stubble—gave a short laugh that sounded like coughing. "Call home? They took our phones at the checkpoint. Said it was for 'security.' Means they don't want us knowing who's still breathing."

  The acne-scarred boy next to me shifted. "I never even got to say goodbye. Just grabbed me off the porch. Mom was still yelling when the flaps dropped."

  "Welcome to the club," the tattoo man said. "They don't give you time for goodbyes. They give you time to die."

  A guy in the corner—older, sixties maybe, voice gravel—spoke up for the first time. "Name's Roy. I was in 'Nam. They gave us M16s. Same thing. Point and squeeze. Most of us learned too late."

  The skinny kid looked at him. "You make it back?"

  Roy shrugged. "I'm here, ain't I?"

  No one mentioned Mike. No one mentioned the soldier who'd carried him out. They were already becoming ghosts. Just stains on the boards and a story no one told.

  The skinny kid tried again. "I'm Tommy. Tommy Hayes. From Decatur. My mom said if I got drafted she'd chain me to the porch. Guess she didn't have time."

  A few low laughs. Not happy. Just something to do with the air.

  The acne-scarred boy cleared his throat. "I'm Kyle. Peoria. I was supposed to start at the plant next month. Assembly line. Good money. Now I'm here."

  The tattoo man nodded. "Frank. Same. Frank Russo. Worked the line twenty-eight years. They called me in for 'essential personnel.' Then they called me in for this."

  Roy grunted. "They always call the old ones last. Then they call us first when the shit hits the fan."

  Tommy looked around. "Anyone else got people?"

  Kyle shrugged. "Girlfriend. She said she'd wait. Don't know if she meant it."

  Frank spat again. "Wife. Two boys. One's fifteen. Other's twelve. Told them to hide if anyone comes. Told them not to open the door. Don't know if they listened."

  The bloodstain sat between us. Dark. Drying. No one mentioned it.

  Tommy looked at me. "What about you?"

  I looked back. Didn't answer right away. Felt the words in my throat. They tasted like metal.

  "Eli," I said. Quiet. Flat. "Eli Elias from Hopewell."

  I paused. Looked at the stain. Then at him.

  "And uh... that's about it."

  The talk had died down after my answer. Tommy looked like he wanted to say something else, but didn't. Kyle rubbed his hands together. Frank spat. Canvas snapped.

  Then Tommy turned to Roy. The old man in the corner. Tommy's eyes wide, like he was trying to find something solid in the dark.

  "Roy... what was it like? In 'Nam? What should we expect?"

  Roy didn't answer. Leaned his head back against the canvas. Eyes half-closed. Truck hit a bump and he let it rock him.

  "Expect?" Voice low. "You expect to be wet. All the time. Rain so thick you can't see your hand. Mud in everything. Your boots rot on your feet."

  Pause.

  "Leeches. People don't talk about the leeches. You pull 'em off, they keep sucking. Blood runs down your leg and you don't even feel it. That's how wet you are."

  Tommy waited.

  "First guy I saw die. We're walking point. Snap. That's it. Just a snap. He looks down at his chest like someone spilled something on him. Then he's on the ground. Trying to talk. Blood bubbling out his neck. Pink bubbles. Like soap."

  Roy's eyes stayed half-closed.

  "We carried him. Don't know why. He was dead. We carried him anyway. After a while you just... drop 'em. You learn."

  Tommy swallowed. "Did you get used to it?"

  Roy opened his eyes. Looked at Tommy. Not unkind. Just tired.

  "You don't get used to it. You get good at not thinking. That's the trick. Don't think. Don't wonder if the guy next to you eats breakfast with his kids. Don't wonder if the shape in the grass is a rock or a man. Just walk. Just shoot. Just breathe."

  Frank grunted.

  "That's it. That's what it was."

  I stopped listening after that. Just negative bullshit. We're all gonna die, we're all gonna die, okay, fine, we get it.

  But man.

  I don't wanna die.

  I really don't. Really, really don't.

  It's weird to think about. Dying. Like... nothing. You just stop. Except matter can't be erased so maybe you're always here but not here? I don't know. That doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense.

  I need to shut up. Every time I go down this hole my stomach gets all tight and wrong. Like I'm falling and never landing.

  But I can't stop thinking it either.

  I closed my eyes.

  I hadn't slept in god knows how long. Not really. Just... drifting. Coming back. Drifting again. Every time I close them I see her face. Mom's. On the porch. The way her mouth moved but nothing came out.

  I hope she's okay.

  That's stupid. She's not okay. She's sitting on that porch right now or standing in the kitchen or lying in her bed staring at the ceiling and she's not okay. Julia's probably still crying. Or she's stopped. I don't know which is worse.

  I hope she's okay anyway.

  I hope Julia stopped crying.

  I hope.

  Truck hit a bump. My head smacked the canvas.

  I hope Mom knows I didn't fight harder because fighting meant hurting her more. I hope she knows that.