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awoke in a cold shiver. His skin crawled with goosebumps, all but for his stump, which burned hot white. He winced.
    Tossing the covers, he rubbed at the twitching gnarled nerves throbbing and pulsing beneath the remains that had once been his leg. The memories came at him, too fast. He could taste sand in the back of his throat. In his mind’s eye he saw Humvees, trash, and dust covered shanties, and Ricky, smoldering black as coal and reeking of singed hair.
    “Jesus!” he cried, tottered and then fell out of bed. He hit the floor with a loud thud. “ Shit ,” he moaned, holding to his residual limb. The skin was just starting to smooth over, the swollen yellow-red softening to a malleable fleshy color, reminding him of some awful watercolor painting.
    “John? Honey? Are you okay?” called Karen from the other side of the bed. She sounded half asleep.
    Am I?
    “Johnathan?”
    “Yes. Fine,” he said indifferently, rubbing the still throbbing nerves along the leg that once was. The taste of sand and ash clung stubbornly to the back of his throat. You’re home, you idgit. You’re home. It was just a dream. You’re alive. He’s dead. Ricky’s still dead—ain’t that some wonderful fucking news.
    “Do you need help, baby?” asked Karen leaning over the edge, her hair looked like a birds nest.
    “No,” answered Johnathan shortly. He shifted his weight, held his breath, took a fist full of mattress, and then heaved himself back up on the bed. Winded, he slumped down on his still wet pillow, soaked with bad dreams, taking in deep languorous breaths of air. There’s scotch in the cabinet…maybe a drink will help you sleep?
    “Did you have a dream?” asked Karen. The tone of concern was hardly masked. She looked over at him with sad understanding eyes.
    “Just a dream. Nothing more,” Johnathan huffed. Sweat beaded down his face. His shirt was matted to his skin. His hair stuck out like an aged punk band. He fought to regain control and closed his eyes. He couldn’t look at his wife.
    “You want to talk about it?” she asked. Tenderly. Lovingly.
    “Not really.”
    “You sure? You can. If you want.”
    “Yes, Karen, I’m sure.”
    “Okay. I’m here if you want.” Karen adjusted her sheets.
    Johnathan opened his eyes. His breathing finally under control, he looked at his wife. “I know—I know…” he paused, amazed at her beauty, her patience, her amare . “ I’m sorry. I know you’re just trying to help, but seriously, it was just a dream. Nothing I can do about it,” he lied.
    “Okay, hun.” Karen hesitated, her gaze prodding the pool of his faded hazels.
    “Seriously, I’m okay,” Johnathan insisted.
    “I love you,” said Karen sweetly, almost in a whisper.
    “I love you too.” Johnathan smiled unconvincingly, but it must have been enough. Karen rolled back over and was quickly asleep once more. Johnathan flipped his own pillow over and nestled back down.
    Why didn’t you just tell her, you idgit? Tell her it was about Ricky. She’d understand. He was family for crying out loud. Ricky was your best friend. Not to mention her sister’s husband. She’d understand the dreams. And the pain. She’d understand. So why didn’t you—
    —You know why.
    Eventually, you’re going to have to practice what you preach.
    —Eventually.
    For a moment, Johnathan thought of Ricky before pushing the face away. The handsome one in the group who married Maggie, another of Suicide Squad . Suicide Squad. Haven’t thought of the club in years! And here he was, a lifetime since then, thinking of his childhood friends. The boys joining the service, though Bobby and Jake had joined years before he and Ricky had, just after some jerkoffs decided to fly a couple of planes into the Twin Towers in New York. Bobby? Where the hell has he been?
    Johnathan vaguely remembered the last time he saw Bobby. He’d heard he was at Ricky’s funeral. Not that he would know for sure. Johnathan had been laid up in