how we react (and how we recover)

to ramona

hi brokeback,

i know youre not going to see this, but i really need to talk to you. if you could do me a favor and be alive, that would really be very good. i had a bad day today, and that's not your fault. but it would probably make me feel better if you were here, because it always did. it feels like i can see everyone but you.

please stop hiding.

hi brokeback,

i know youre not going to see this, but i really need to talk to you. if you could do me a favor and be alive, that would really be very good. i had a bad day today, and that's not your fault. but it would probably make me feel better if you were here, because it always did. it feels like i can see everyone but you.

please stop hiding.

It had been a quiet day. Quiet days are hard to come by, and even when they come, they aren't all that quiet. It just means the noise is further away. Some different kids from different one-horse towns are being blown away. Not them, for now.

Dave had learned to sleep through almost anything. He knows that maybe it would be better for his chances of survival if the opposite were true- that he should stay alert and sleep with his boots on and one eye open. There are guys in the unit who do that. But not him. So on a night where the bombs are falling miles away, he knows he's got a real chance of getting five whole hours. Wouldn't that be a dream.

He's laying on his back when it happens. He'd just noticed his cot wobbling; he's considering whether to get up and fix it or just deal with it and stay in bed.

He isn't given a choice.

The light comes first, blinding and blue, followed by a sharp zap! Dave's first thought is that someone in the tent must have found a way to watch The Jetsons.

"Dammit!" a voice shouts.

Dave sits halfway up in bed, and is met with- someone. Someone isn't dressed in anything but a black trench coat and a bath towel, coated in blood and grime. In fact, his entire body is coated in blood and grime (but, then, so is everyone else's around here). He's clutching a shiny black briefcase to his chest like a lifeline. He's also staring at Dave. Really, really staring.

He's staring at Dave as if he's the strangest thing he's ever seen, head cocked to one side like a lost dog.

Someone's confused. They're both confused. Dave is about to speak when-

He's on the bus. Dave watches Someone stumble up the steps, still wide-eyed, still white-knuckling his briefcase while trying his best to carry a rifle in the other hand. He takes a seat and stares straight ahead, white as a sheet.

Whenever they're heading out like this, Dave finds himself taking a long look at everyone he can see. He doesn't want to call it what it is: taking inventory. Considering all these boys, and what they might lose in between now and the bus ride back. Wondering which seats will be empty.

Not this time. He's too distracted by the pale boy with the huge eyes, shaking in someone else's boots.

Dave's never been afraid to make new friends, not even here. He moves up a few seats. "You just get in country?" he asks.

The boy turns. He seems older now that he's wiped that blank, bewildered look off his face. He seems less confused. Less confused and more scared. He stammers before answering. "Oh. Yeah."