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whatever disaster might try to attach itself to him. “I’m invincible,” he said, and everyone else nodded in agreement. Buster grabbed the beer and began to walk away from the other men. “Don’t miss,” he shouted over his shoulder, and Joseph replied, “I won’t.”
    Buster was shaking so hard that it was impossible to balance the can on his head. “Give me a second,” he yelled. He closed his eyes, forced his lungs to take in deep, sustained breaths, and felt his body begin to go numb. He imagined that the doctors had just taken him off of life support and he was dying in slow increments. Finally, he was dead, and then he took another breath and, all of a sudden, he wasn’t. When he opened his eyes, he was ready for whatever would come next.
    It was beginning to grow dark, but he could clearly see Joseph bring the gun into position. Buster closed his eyes, held his breath, and, before he realized that the gun had been fired, a gust of heat and wind passed over him and deconstructed the beer can atop his head, the sound of something irrevocably giving up its shape and becoming, in an instant, something new.
    The soldiers shouted and exchanged high fives and, when Buster returned, took turns roughly embracing him, as if they had just rescued him from a cave-in or pulled him out of a dark well. “If I was any happier,” Kenny said, “I would combust.” Buster pulled free of their arms and snatched the last unopened beer from the cooler. “Again,” he said and, without waiting for an answer, ran into the growing dark without fear, every single part of his body overwhelmed with the task of being alive.
    W hen Buster awoke from unconsciousness, he saw, with some degree of difficulty, Joseph’s face hovering over him. “Oh god,” Joseph wailed, “I thought for sure that you were dead.” Buster could not turn his head and his vision went in and out of focus. “What’s going on?” he asked. “I shot you, goddamn it,” Joseph yelled, “I shot you in the face, Buster.” He heard Kenny shout, “We’re driving you to the hospital, Buster, okay?”
    “What?” Buster asked. He understood that people were shouting but he could hardly hear them. “It’s pretty bad,” Joseph said. “My face?” Buster asked, still confused. He moved to touch the right side of his face, which was numb and on fire at the same time, but Joseph grabbed his wrist to stop him. “You probably shouldn’t do that,” he said. “Is something wrong with it?” Buster asked. “It’s still there,” Joseph said, “but it’s not . . . correct.” Buster made the decision, which took some degree of concentration, to go back to sleep, but Joseph would not allow this. “You are definitely concussed,” he told Buster. “Just listen to my voice and try to stay awake.”
    There was an awkward silence and then Joseph said, “I wrote this story last week for my class. It was about this guy who had just come back from Iraq, but it’s not supposed to be me. It’s an entirely different person. This guy lives in Mississippi. So, he’s back in his hometown after being away for almost ten years, and he’s having a drink at this bar. When he goes to play some pinball, an old friend from high school comes up to him and they start to talk.” Joseph paused and then squeezed Buster’s hand. “Are you still awake?” he asked. Buster tried to nod, but couldn’t and so he said, “I’m awake. I’m listening.”
    “Good. Okay,” Joseph continued, “so they’re catching up and getting drunk and the bar’s starting to close. The main character tells this guy about how he’s trying to get a job and make some money so he can move out of his parents’ house and get his own place. Well, this guy tells the main character that he’ll give him five hundred bucks if he’ll do something for him. How does that sound so far?” Buster wondered if he was dying, if, when Joseph reached the end of his story, he would be dead. “It sounds