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around him. It
filled his lungs with each heavy breath and burned his eyes. Again, he heard
the familiar thumping as the Blackhawk’s rotors beat the air into submission.
He heard men scream and call out for covering fire. The sounds faded into the
distance, as if he was in a silent rail car pulling rapidly away from the
battle. As he watched in horrified fascination, the purple sky began to swirl
above him like a blackening cyclone. It twisted into tighter and smaller
circles, which spun faster and faster, and the edges filled in with familiar
white stucco, lit yellow from a pale light behind him. Then, when the swirling
black and purple looked no more than the size of a basketball, and the sounds
had faded to nothing but memory, the purple circle exploded with a flash of red
light and was gone, replaced by a slowly turning ceiling fan.
    Jack sat bolt
upright, his breathing raspy and fast. Sweat poured off his face and chest. He
heard footsteps approaching rapidly, and then a voice which soothed him.
    “Jack? Jack, baby,
are you ok?”
    Pam came in
from the hall, the source of the pale, yellow light. She held Claire in her
arms, their little girl’s eyes heavy and her lip set in a pout.
    “Pam?” He felt
disoriented and confused. Terrified in fact.
    “Jack, what is
it? What happened?” Pam sat on the edge of the bed, Claire balanced on her
thigh. His little girl started sobbing. “Jack, my God, you’re covered in sweat!
Are you sick? Do you have a fever?”
    Jack took his
wife’s hand in both of his and kissed it, then held it against his chest, still
panting. He tried to speak but found no words.
    “Jack, what
made you scream?” She started to cry. ”Please, say something!”
    Jack continued
to hold her hand against his chest and cleared his throat, which felt
incredibly dry and sore. His heart beat nearly out of his chest.
    “I…I, uh…”
Jack coughed and tasted the coppery taste of blood in his throat. His tongue
burned and he realized he must have bitten it. He could feel his chest tighten
and thought he might burst into tears himself.
    “N…n…nightmare,”
he stammered. Then he laid his head over on his wife’s leg and the tears came.
    “Oh, Jack, oh,
baby…” Pam cried harder now, her tears dripping off her chin and into his hair,
but he had no energy to comfort or reassure her. “Oh, baby, what can I do?”
    “I don’t
know,” Jack choked out. “I don’t know… I don’t know… What is wrong with me?” He
cried hard now. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to force away the image of
young Simmons, his face blown off, lying in the dirt beside him. It didn’t
help. He could still taste the dust in his mouth, still smell the gunpowder and
blood.
    Pam rubbed his
shoulder and kissed his hair. “It’s ok, baby… Everything’s ok.” Claire sniffled
more softly, her head on her mother’s shoulder. “It’s ok, Jack. I’m here. I’ve
got you, baby. We’re gonna get you better.”
    Jack stayed
for a long while like that, holding his wife and daughter and crying in the
night.

 
     
     
     
    Chapter
    6
     
     
     
     
     
    Sunday morning started off
quiet and awkward. Jack tried pointlessly to pretend that everything was okay—because,
he supposed, he desperately wanted it to be. He felt terrified by the nagging
thought that he must be going crazy, but was more frightened by thoughts of
what Pam must be thinking about him. A big part of him had lost all doubt that
he was losing his mind. The nightmare seemed so vivid again, so real. In some
ways more real than sipping coffee (vanilla creamer and one sugar) quietly at
the kitchen table, wincing as it stung his bitten tongue.
    So it was
Simmons—the third death in the firefight—twenty-year-old Simmons from Albany, with
his dirty blond hair, always a little longer than the rest of the guys (and a
source of constant hazing from his squad leader, Sergeant Casey Stillman). He
could see him in his mind’s eye in better times, sitting