Fall 2012 Issue

blow half this street to kingdom come, but I doubt anyone would even notice the difference. These damn people would probably just shrug and assume it’s a new pothole.

At least I’ve come to the end of the chain on one side. So now it’s time to follow wire number two, since this is a radio-controlled IED. Means I have to find the receiver, which is probably hooked up to a few more homemade and lovingly packed explosives. Like my mom used to pack my lunch. Sandwich, apple, bag of chips, and a nice mixture of explosives from anti-tank mines, all cozied up in a tin box with a picture of Superman on it.

Sweat’s trickling down my chin, running right down the middle because I have a cleft chin, a neat little slash that dad’s always been real proud of. It’s like a rain gutter for all my sweat, sweeping the salty grime away to fall onto the collar of my shirt. I still feel like I’m suffocating in the bomb suit though. One of those heavily padded suits that weighs about a ton and can’t stop an explosion, no way. I’d be dead, sure as anything, if this thing went off. Little bits of Thomas, scattered in the Afghan sky—lovely, almost.

Only, I’m in Iraq now.

But to me, the sky looks the same even in Alabama.

My senior year of high school, I was with a girl. Her name was LeeAnne, and she had a dimple smile and mop of curly blonde hair.

Good at school, too, I guess. Better than me, anyway.

We went on a few dates together, and she always used to hold my hand when we walked somewhere. Rested her head on my shoulder, told me I had sky-blue eyes and bashful lips. After we graduated, she wanted to run away with me. To California, or maybe New York.

Somehow, though, I just never got around to it.

She even stayed with me when I went on my first rotation to Afghanistan, but I didn’t stay with her. Broke up with her in a letter that was three lines long. I wasn’t being a coward, though that’s what she thought. I just didn’t want to talk to her. Or be with her, I guess. I don’t know. I wasn’t in the mood.

Jim wasn’t very supportive. Maybe that’s what helped him decide to stay home finally. Fear of—me. Becoming me, at least. But he says he’s no coward, either. It’s what everyone says, and not even I can tell if they’re telling the truth. If he is. If I am.

The wire clippers are in my right hand, and I’ve found the little bugger. All I have to do now is clip the wires. I know exactly which 19