US 41 is empty this time of night, but I enjoy it. My mom always assumed I was up to no good when I stayed out all night, but most of the time I was just driving around. I think about turning the SUV north and heading to North Carolina, but I don’t have my stuff and I’m not really allowed to go back yet.We were back from Afghanistan a couple of days when Sergeant Peralta—my squad leader—called me aside.“Just wanted to check in,” he said. “You doing okay?”“Yeah, I’m good.”“You sure?” he asked. “Because you seem like you’re dragging ass. That’s not like you.”The nightmares were keeping me up most nights. “Just tired, I guess.”“Listen, I’m concerned that you’re not dealing with Charlie’s death,” he said. “As a friend, I’m telling you that you need to get your shit together before anyone higher up the chain notices.”“I’m fine,” I said. “I just need to go buy a brand-new Mustang and shack up with a stripper.”Peralta laughed, because we’d just finished sitting through a two-hour stand-down on money management—basically, that we shouldn’t throw it away on expensive cars, blow it at the casino, or marry girls who would spend it all and dump us for another Marine.
