Winter passed. The sun grew stronger, the snow began to melt, and the thaw signaled a quiet return to work.

  The trout in the weir pool had grown well—big enough to eat by next year. Floyd would sit in the evenings, watching them rise for flies that skimmed the surface. Sometimes they leapt clean out of the water, glinting in the light. Other fish had appeared too—minnows and sticklebacks, probably carried downstream by the creek. Crayfish crept along the weir’s gravel bed. The water was so clear it seemed like a window into another world.

  Wild ducks visited now and again, and a kingfisher flashed past some mornings, silent as a whisper.

  Floyd often sat by the weir on warm evenings, pipe in hand, listening to nature’s quiet breath.

  The outbuildings were repaired—no bear had taken up residence, thankfully.

  He built an observation tower next to the house. Accessed by a simple winch elevator, it was a nod to practicality. “Thinking ahead,” as his father had always said. One day he wouldn’t be able to carry gear up a ladder. But for now, he could still haul the telescope out and lose himself in the stars. The Moon, the constellations, the slow dance of planets—it was all still there. He still had the dog-eared astronomy book he’d got for Christmas as a boy.

  Once, he thought he saw one of the strange lights Oddball had talked about—but it turned out to be a firefly.

  A fenced vegetable garden went in—lettuce, cabbage, tomatoes, onions, potatoes. Ash from the stove made good fertilizer. He planted apple and pear trees along the edge of the clearing.

  He considered adding an automated control system to the turbine. For now, he turned it on and off manually. It gave him something to do. “I don’t want to be housebound in winter,” he reminded himself.

  But there were things he couldn’t control.

  The skull returned.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  It screamed in his dreams, “You moved. I found you. You can run but you can’t hide. You’ll never be free. I despise you. You will never rest.”

  He would wake with a silent, body-jarring shriek. The bedding soaked with sweat. In winter, drying it inside was slow, frustrating work.

  His medals were still with him, locked away in a box he never opened. They meant nothing compared to the memories.

  Seasons passed.

  Every spring, he dragged the weir pool with a homemade grappling hook. The spring thaw brought debris—branches, bushes, the occasional half-submerged log. He cleared it all.

  He bought an off-road quad and trailer to help with firewood, then added a chipper and a compactor. The chippings were pressed into briquettes for the kitchen stove. “No sense using good logs where I can’t enjoy seeing them burn,” he muttered.

  He built a wind turbine. Installed solar panels. Now, in summer, the creek could rest while the wind and sun did their share.

  Henry, at the general store, also doubled as the town barber. Floyd came in once a month for a haircut.

  “Make it short,” he’d say.

  Henry would often vanish mid-cut to tend a customer. “Be back in a few minutes.”

  Oddball visited every week if the weather allowed. They sat on the veranda with a couple of beers, sharing stories from their time in uniform. The funny ones. The serious ones. The ones they hadn’t told anyone else.

  Eventually, Floyd began to speak about Iraq.

  He told Oddball about “The Highway of Death.” The body parts. The burned-out vehicles, skulls leering black from melted dashboards. The stench. The flies. The maggots. The vultures. The jackals.

  “I never blamed the maggots or the jackals,” he said. “They were just doing nature’s work. It was man who made that mess. Greed. Politics. Power.”

  Eventually he spoke of the dreams, the screaming skull, the memories that never left.

  Sometimes the tears came, slow and quiet, but relentless.

  Oddball listened without judgment.

  “That’s rough, man,” he said. “No one should have to see that. I never did, but I heard stories. I’m here for you, brother. Anytime. Day or night. You’re not alone.”

  It took time—weeks, months—but slowly, Floyd told him everything.

  “Thanks for listening,” Floyd would say, wiping his eyes.

  “That’s what friends are for. How about another beer?”

  One evening, they were on the back veranda again. The sky had gone orange with the sunset. Floyd tapped the ash out of his pipe.

  “We should play “Time” tonight,” he said.

  “Any reason?”

  “Yeah. There’s a line—‘And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.’”

  Oddball blinked. “Wait—ten years?”

  Floyd nodded. “To the day. Ten years since I pulled over on the side of the road and met you.”

  “Well, damn. Doesn’t seem that long. Tempus fugit and all that.”

  They played the entire Dark Side of the Moon album. Sang along here and there. Sat in silence the rest of the time.

  Not long after that, one evening after Oddball had gone home, Floyd sat alone on the veranda. He sipped the last of his beer, pipe cooling in the ashtray.

  Then—

  It happened.

  The visitor arrived.