I didn’t want L.D. inadvertently inflicting “boonie voodoo” upon the team by establishing prophecies, or a train of thought that made such prophecies seem logical. But I didn’t have the strength to shout over all of the helicopter noise. I looked down at my hands, which were sticky with Felix’s blood. My rough palms were blackened like charcoal from white phosphorus burns. They were little black bore holes, the very opposite of white. Beyond those I had to thank God that I made it through another mission without suffering great physical harm. I cared not at all for Felix, never had—and who could the stupid fuck blame except himself? Had it been anyone else, it would have bothered me. I watched smoke coming from the little bore holes in my hands. Adrenaline aside, they really did hurt, but it was the sort of hurt that almost felt good. Christ! I was alive. Soon I would be guzzling beer and smoking reefer. Maybe Barnes would give us five days of out-of-country R&R. Bora Bora was supposed to be very good. I could feel the smile muscles begin to activate but couldn’t help but wonder if Pfieffer wasn’t right with his boonie voodoo theory. Maybe Felix T. had hexed us when he torched that fucking bird back at Pendleton. For all the smiles, something felt wrong, and we all knew it and felt guilty for not stopping him when he set the goddamn thing on fire. I pulled a small jar of Vaseline from the medical ruck and used it to cut off the oxygen supply to the white phosphorus burns on my hands. As soon as the rest of the team saw the Vaseline, they begged for me to pass the jar around. I wasn’t the only one suffering from internal combustion. Wisps of rancid smoke were steaming from little pinpoint vent holes off of just about everybody.

40, Still at Home

THE GREEN ROOM​ would never make the pages of Better Homes & Gardens. The carpet was old pea-green shag. Originally, it matched the green velvet cover of the springworn Slumber King, but somewhere during the Jimmy Carter administration the velvet dyes had broken down. Now, the bedcover, canopy, and the two sets of heavy green velvet drapes had lightened to a garish shade of lime. The room’s textures and color schemes were a fright, like the marriage of Transylvania and Graceland. Margo Billis could no longer bear looking at it. The plan had been to renovate this atrocity as she had done with the rest of the house, but that had been B.C., before the cancer. The future seemed worthwhile. No longer was this so.