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Freddie starts to hyperventilate, shaking in Ira’s arms over
phantom lines of troops advancing through a heavy rain of shells
and gunfire, a tank that doesn’t see a fallen soldier, as powerless
to stop them now as he was then, and all Ira can do is hold on.

•••
“Fred, you’re drunk.” Ira reaches to take the glass from
Freddie’s hand, but Freddie clasps it tighter.
“I know.” Freddie smiles, slow and easy, but his eyes are
vacant. “I believe it was the, uh, the point of the exercise.”
Ira folds his arms loosely across his chest. “It’s eleven
o’clock in the morning,” he says, turning his wrist up to glance
at his watch.
“It’s five o’clock in Germany,” Freddie says, the alcohol
softening his consonants.
“Well, you’re not in Germany anymore,” Ira says.
The smile slips off Freddie’s face like a cracked shell from
a hard-boiled egg, and he drains the rest of the whiskey from the
glass before standing, shoving the tumbler at Ira, and striding
into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
Ira hears the lock slide shut with a smooth click. The sound
of retching causes Ira to step forward and knock his fist against
the door.
“Freddie, open up,” he implores. “Freddie, I’m sorry. Un-
lock the door. Let me in.”
Ira hears the spatter of vomit hitting toilet water, then a low
groan. He presses his forehead against the wood and drops his
hand to the doorknob.
“Freddie, I’m sorry. Let me in.”

•••
Freddie sits naked with his legs off the side of the bed, lean-
ing forward. His stump hangs uselessly at his side, his dick soft
against his thigh. It’s too dark to see his face.
“It’s okay,” Ira says, except that it isn’t; it is so far from
okay that he could scream, can feel the sound rising like bile in

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