Another new day starts.

He sits on the bed, uniform pressed, writing his letter to me and the baby. Home for good this time.

I close my eyes and drift.

The sound of a plane high above transports me to the ghostly valleys of Afghanistan. The air turns acrid. I watch him write the second side then lick the envelope to seal.

He turns slowly to reveal the damage; a hollow socket stares back. “You know,” he says, “a bullet never has to look at the wreck it leaves behind.” He smiles—all teeth.

I reach for the letter, but it fades from focus, unwritten and never read.

107 words.