They began with gear. A laptop. A DVD player. There were only two DVDs. One was Full Metal Jacket and the other, Apocalypse Now. Seemed as if every man on base had these two. Their first tour at Bagram, some went around repeating choice lines from the films. Fire-fights were the real shit. Infantry liked to come out with I have become death, destroyer of worlds. Marines favored Though I walk through the valley of death I shall fear no evil because I am the meanest motherfucker in the valley. This tour, guys had watched them too many times over, and no one re-enacted favorite moments anymore. Killer talk, nihilistically shaded, had been in your face. Now it was the valley of cheesy.

She picked up the red MP3 player that wasn’t an iPod. She remembered him talking about winning it in a beer-cap contest. She gave the sicmo the brand and model number of a digital camera about the size of a pack of cigarettes. She’d been with Frank when he bought it in Doha on leave. There was the camera-battery charger he got at the airport. She folded the earbud headphones that he’d always cussed for falling out of his ears. There was his cell phone, one that flipped open and had a ringtone like the theme from a game show. She saw the two cell-phone chargers—he’d lost one, bought a new one, and then realized he still had the old one. A USB drive. A portable printer. Two radios. A compass, GPS, optics, night-vision periscope. She examined his clock radio; he’d written something, looked as if he’d carved it with a scissor tip, but she couldn’t tell what it said.

His clothes and shoes came next. He had three pairs of clean socks, three dirty; six pairs of boxers, all dirty; six T-shirts, all clean; the regulation uniforms—physical training, airman battle, and camouflage. He had a pair of running shoes, shower flip-flops. He’d worn his combat boots.

After that, it was photographs thumbtacked to the wall. Three of his new baby boy, Trevor. Another of his daughter, Angela. Another of Clara holding Trevor. Their wedding photo. His sister and her kids. His brother. His parents. She’d heard Frank talk at length about his sister’s husband, who left her six months ago with no explanation. She knew his brother was a telephone-company manager who didn’t get along with Frank’s father. This father was a strict disciplinarian and retired army. She knew his mom was a substitute schoolteacher but was artistic and had started trying to change one of their bedrooms into a studio so she could paint, but his dad didn’t like it. They’d been fighting recently. She remembered in particular Frank saying his father’s moods were steep and treacherous. They’d laughed at that.

“You all right, Captain?”

“Sir?”

“This can’t be easy.”