We find a car idling outside a gas station and Brogan yanks the driver out, then drives us to a field far from town where he teaches me how to roll and shoot, detonate C4, and drive while lobbing grenades out the window. He hands me a cigarette when we take a break from blowing things up, and this time I light it easily. “You said this is your son’s game?”

“Yeah, he’d flip if he knew I was playing. His mom and I didn’t let him play for over a year.”

“Married?”

“Divorced. Three years ago.”

“Shit, sorry to hear it. If you’re interested, there’s a place around here I can take you. Girl players who’ll fuck avatars.”

“Are you serious?”

“Not my thing—but if you’d be into it…”

“I’m good.”

“All right, man. Well, wife’s calling, gotta log off.”

“Jeez, it’s three a.m. Sorry, I had no clue how late it was.”

“No worries. Still midnight here. I’m back tomorrow at eight p.m., West Coast time. Just request a mission with me and we’ll find something better than this sniper bullshit. I’m actually a higher-level player, but once you get to the upper ranks it’s a whole lot of teens and psychos.”

“Sounds good.”

“Cool,” Brogan says. “See you tomorrow.”

And just like that, I have a new friend.

I have to admit that war, despite its terror, is a bonding experience. When Eli comes over on the weekends we talk about strategies, discuss levels, and go to conventions together. We’re in the bleachers on Valentine’s Day when the General welcomes Sergeant Franks, the keynote speaker, a sixty-five-year-old, real-war, Purple Heart veteran from the Desert Storm days. Franks is clean-shaven and when he leans toward the microphone his voice is steady and cold.