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Freddie takes a breath, blinks at him. “Well?”
“When were you thinking about this?” Ira asks, still re­
coiling from the news. A part of him wonders if this is a very
poorly executed joke. “Last night? Because if I’m that bad in the
sack that you’re considering signing up for the army just to get
some, you can tell me, really.”
“Ira, come on.” Freddie briefly wraps a loose hand around
Ira’s wrist before stroking up Ira’s forearm, who recognizes it for
a failing attempt at placation.
“You’ve been thinking about this for a while, haven’t you,”
says Ira. It is not a question.
“Since just after Thanksgiving.”
Ira pushes off him without a word, dragging the sheets with
him as he moves towards the edge of the mattress.
“I’m enlisting, Ira,” Freddie says a third time, as though the
words don’t strike at Ira like an open fist. “I’m getting a physical
tomorrow after my shift, and then I’m going to the recruitment
office to sign papers. I wanted to discuss it with you now,
because once the paperwork goes through—”
“This isn’t a discussion,” Ira stops him, sliding off the bed.
He stands next to the chair and begins to root through the pile of
clothing on the seat. “This is you, leaving me, to go get shot at
by Nazi pigs.”
“For God’s sake, I’m not leaving you—don’t put words
in my mouth. I’ll serve; they’ll give me furloughs. I’ll come
home—”
“You’ll come home in a coffin!” snaps Ira, turning around
to face him. But Ira moves too quickly; tripping over a shoe, he
rolls his ankle and pitches sideways in a stabbing spike of pain.
Freddie reaches for him, but Ira flinches away, gripping the
sharp edge of the bedside table to steady himself.
“Fuck,” Ira says, then quieter, “Fuck this.” He doesn’t look
at Freddie.
“It’s the right thing to do.” Freddie’s voice is soft, like the

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