“Yeah, well. Maybe you should’ve listened to her.”
For the rest of the drive home Fierro remained quiet. Even when we drove past the windmills, he didn’t make his usual joke. Q: How do windmills feel about renewable energy? A: They’re big fans! When we got to his apartment building, he flipped down the passenger-side mirror and ran his hands through his greasy hair, smoothing it down. At Camp Taqaddum, he used to stand in front of the small mirror in the showers and wrap a bandanna around his head, pulling it all the way to his eyebrows. It was the only way to keep the sweat from running down his face in a continuous stream when we were out on patrol. We went on dozens of them together, lost a buddy in them, but it wasn’t a patrol that got us. It was an escort run, just a week before the end of our last tour, when we were told to take an Iraqi minister by the name of Dr. Jaber to a meeting on the west side of Ramadi. He was in charge of restoring parts of the electricity grid that had been destroyed during the invasion, but in the eight months he had been meeting with American contractors they had yet to agree on a plan. It was a Monday morning in May, I remember, the temperature already reaching the high nineties, though no one in our unit minded it. We were eager to get through our final few shifts and much of our conversation while we waited for the minister was about what we’d do once we were back stateside. Go to bars. Meet girls. Swim in a pool. Forget all that, Hec said. I want to move someplace where it rains and where I never have to see anyone.
After the meeting, we drove Dr. Jaber back on Route Michigan. The road ahead was white with sunlight. Sitting at the turret, I squinted against the glare, even through my Ray-Bans. From somewhere down the street came the creaking of a bread cart and the laughter of children. And then, just like that, I was flying ten feet into the air, my rifle spinning out of my arms, a piece of shrapnel lodged in my back. Everything went black. The next thing I remember was the taste of gravel dust in my mouth and Fierro screaming at the top of his lungs: I got you, Gorecki, I got you. He hoisted me over his back and carried me out of the ditch where I’d landed. Only later, when I woke up at the clinic, did I learn that he had a blown eardrum.
He flipped the passenger-side mirror closed. “Wanna get a drink?”
“Not tonight.”
“What? I smell that bad?”
“A shower wouldn’t kill you. But no, I’m just tired.”
“All right. Thanks again, dude.”
I pulled out of the lot and headed home. A heaviness had settled on me, the kind that I knew would keep me up all night. Maybe I should go on a hike, I thought. Tire myself out. Clear my mind. I drove past my street corner and continued down the highway toward the national park. I was waiting at a red light when I saw Nora walk into McLean’s.
Nora
I had gone to the cabin to escape squabbles with my family, but the cabin presented a challenge of its own: it was so quiet that it seemed to me I could hear the beating of my own heart. I wasn’t used to the desert, at least not anymore, and after a while I got into my car and went looking for a place to get a drink. I’d never been inside McLean’s, and it surprised me to see how busy it was at barely six in the evening. I took a seat at the bar. A couple of tourists in hiking clothes and wide-brimmed hats were huddled over a single menu, debating whether to get plain or garlic fries. Three seats down, a man in blue overalls was scratching at a lottery ticket with a house key. Across from me, a couple of bearded men were conversing quietly over their beers. The bartender was mixing cocktails and didn’t look up when I tried to catch his eye.