Minor had been dry-eyed and stoic through the account, but now his face spasmed in some un-nameable emotion. Kennet was reminded of how Minor used to look when he was in Major’s doghouse. Like the world was iodine and Minor an open wound.

“Tell me,” Kennet said softly. “What did he say?”

“Something like, ‘Thanks for getting me through. You’re a decent guy for a faggot.’”

If the sub-lieutenant were standing by and Kennet had a machine gun, he would’ve mowed him down without his pulse rising.

“The fucking look on his face,” Minor said. “You could tell he’d been crafting that line a long time. Couldn’t wait to try it out.”

“If I ever meet that son of a bitch, he’s dead.”

“He pounded my back with a big guffaw. ‘Ahh, I’m just kidding. Really. I’m kidding. Thanks for being there. Want to suck my cock? Heyyyyy, just kidding…’”

“Did you punch him out?”

“I’m wild enough to entertain the idea of slugging a commissioned officer but not dumb enough to do it. I’d be in a psych ward or a pink cell fast enough to make my head spin, then tossed into the street with a blue discharge. Fuck that.”

“Fuck all of it.” Kennet got up and moved over to Minor’s unwounded side. He put arms around his brother and pulled him in tight. “And fuck Sub-Lieutenant Cocksucker, too. Bet he’s never been laid in his pathetic life. He’s got such bad taste, not even the sharks want him.”

Minor laughed, and then he was crying.

Kennet held his head, rubbing a cheek on Minor’s crown. “It’s all right. A blind man can see who the better man is. He’s shit and you’re gold.”

“I feel so bad.”

“I know.”

“I either feel so fucking bad or I don’t fucking feel anything. I can’t find the place in the middle. I can’t find me.”

“I know. I know exactly what you feel, Mine. I know. It’s the same with me.”

“I can’t tell you how happy I am you’re home. The fucking relief. I’ve been waiting. I needed you back so much and… This is stupid.”

“Tell me.”

“It finally hit me Nalle was dead. I mean, it really sunk in. And then I got crazy scared that something outrageous would happen to keep you from coming home. My overactive imagination was having a field day with the possibilities. An attack from some last pocket of resistance. Some unexploded ordnance going off while you were on duty. A building collapse. A freak accident on the street. A repeat of the nineteen eighteen influenza. Your ship going down. Your train derailing. Telling you, Nyck—you need a ridiculous way to die? I’m your man. I bumped you off nine ways to Sunday.”