Jefferson stayed on the step, anchored by his mates’ hands, waving until the little depot disappeared. His jaw clenched like a dam against a raging river. The men averted their own brimming eyes and pounded Jefferson’s shoulders and rubbed his back. They passed him chocolate and gum before letting him be.

Kennet divided up his birthday cake. He ate his way through a popcorn ball, finding a slip of paper at the center: Mrs. Hilda Messer, RR2, North Platte, Nebr.

When conversation began to flow again, the stories told were deeper, more personal. The men spoke about failures, disappointments, despicable behavior they regretted, heartbreaks and fear. Fear of death, pain, torture, dismemberment. Fear of shame. Fear of being left behind to rot in the hinterlands. Flesh and bones and ash, no gravestone, no remains, nothing to comfort loved ones at home.

Fear of being forgotten.

Photos of sweethearts, wives and children passed up and down and across, along with lit cigarettes. Chocolate was exchanged for gum, a ham sandwich swapped for an egg salad.

They unfolded the bunks and told ghost stories that night, huddled around a campfire of lit cigarette tips. The crackle of candy bar wrappers. The pop of gum between unbrushed teeth. The waft of someone cutting the cheese—“I knew I shouldn’t have eaten the egg salad.” And they tried to scare each other. Scare off the real fears with legendary ones.

“Your turn, Fish.”

Kennet stubbed out his cigarette. “I don’t know any ghost stories.”

“Tell us a fish tale.”

“Yeah, tell us about the one that got away.”

Kennet thought a moment. “How about a woman who got away with murder?”

“As long as she has big tits.”

Groans and whistles. Bodies shifting. Joints cracking. Zippos flicking. Chocolate unwrapped. Stale gum spit out the window and fresh sticks folded into dry mouths. Popcorn hulls littered the floor. Slips of paper with women’s names buttoned safely into pockets. Opening lines of letters already being composed: Dear Miss Wilson, what a swell place North Platte is…

“Go ahead, Fish.”

“Go, Fish.”

“Got any threes? Go, Fish.”

Kennet told a condensed version of Hildur, Queen of the Elves.

“So everyone lived happily ever after,” someone said, when the story was finished. “That’s not a ghost story.”

“I told you it wasn’t,” Kennet said. “They lived happily ever after, but Hildur still got away with murder.”

“Who cares?”

“I do. Especially now.”

“Tell another,” Richard Hook said. He and Kennet had been buddies since Camp Polk, and now they shared one of the bottom-most bunks. A potentially awkward situation, once upon a time, but after years of all-male communal living and next to no privacy, Kennet barely gave it a thought. He liked Hook. Cripes, with their last names, it was kind of impossible not to.