They fought on the same side against a squadron of AI snipers and took turns ducking behind tanks and blown-out bunkers, shooting into the field so Jeremiah could get the hang of the most important aspects of the controls. Every now and then, Brent would send his avatar creeping out into the arena so Jeremiah could practice covering him against enemy fire. He wasn’t very good at it and, more than once, Brent’s player died an unceremonious death while Jeremiah failed to realize his weapon needed reloading. Every blast of machine gun spray and each explosion rocked through his headset and set his teeth on edge. But his adrenaline was pumping like he hadn’t felt it in months, and he sat on the edge of his seat as he practiced his aim. They could type to converse during game play, and Brent made him practice that, too. The letter selection was operated by the hand controller, which took some getting used to, so Jeremiah made his fair share of typos in his attempts at communicating, insisting several times that he needed more powerful gums.

After both soldiers were obliterated for the fifteenth time, Brent exited the game and switched the monitor to standby.

“Almost time for the viewing,” he said. “Duty calls.”

“I’d rather keep playing than sit and watch that clone for four hours. I can totally see how someone could get hooked on this stuff,” Jeremiah said. He took off his headset and combed his fingers through his hair. He’d been letting it grow, along with his beard, for the past few weeks and it was long enough now to snag a bit in the back.

“I know, right? Maybe now you’ll go easier on Parker when you get home.”

At the mention of his son, a wave of regret washed over Jeremiah. Parker had been on his mind during the entire game. Part of him had picked up that controller in a futile effort to feel closer to him, but somehow, he felt more removed from him than ever. Why, just once, couldn’t he have thought to join Parker in one of his games? Why had he let it become a wedge between them?

“Hell, I’ll probably start pestering him to let me play,” Jeremiah said sullenly. “You want to make some dinner before this thing turns on? I’ve been wanting to try lasagna.”

“This is something I need to see,” Brent said. “All this time I thought your specialty was toast.”

“I’m branching out,” Jeremiah told him. “You’re rubbing off on me. Besides, I have so little to do around here that eating has taken on a whole new meaning. I like my food these days.”

Brent followed him into the kitchen and went into the fridge to get them some beers while they worked on dinner. Jeremiah didn’t know when, exactly, but they’d quietly begun opening their first even before the viewing started.

“Hey, what’s with all the light beer?” Brent asked. “Where’s the good stuff? You drinking my beers on me?”