mother.” Justin turned and ran away startled. He didn’t stop running until he was home in bed with his door locked behind him. That night he slept with his shoes on. He woke up several times to search his room for ghostly intruders. He dreamed that the playground was a graveyard. In his dream he was searching through tombstones, looking for his father’s grave. He woke up without finding it. His dreams haunted him more than the figure in the park, and Justin had questions only the scarred soldier could answer; he had to return. It was a week before he managed to stay awake longer than anyone else in the house and again slip out the door. As chance would have it, he chose a warm night with a clear sky and a nearly full moon. “You again?” the figure asked as Justin approached the second time, “What do you want, boy?” Justin wasn’t planning on answering any questions—instead he stared into the soldier’s eyes. Justin had practiced his stare. He had practiced it enough that he was confident he could out-stare anyone. He out-stared his mother daily, his sisters often, his teacher, and every kid he knew. He was good. Tonight he fixed his eyes on the man and waited. The soldier stared back. His one good eye didn’t blink or shift, but stayed fixed on Justin. In the end, Justin blinked. He looked away ashamed. “I have had a lot more practice than you have, son, and I have the advantage.” The man laughed and pointed to his bad eye, forever closed. “But you’re good,” he continued, “keep practicing.” Justin looked up into his eye and began to laugh along with him. The sober figure had come to life. He smiled and rocked in the swing, his legs sliding silently over the dirt. He looked at Justin fondly, “You’re a brave one, coming out here all alone like this.” He opened his eye wide, “Does your mother know you are here?” Justin shook his head no, put his hands together and rested his head on them as if he were sleeping. Then he pointed at the soldier, who understood immediately. “I don’t sleep anymore, too many nightmares, and no, there isn’t anybody at home to miss me. That’s part of the reason I can’t sleep. Too quiet.” The soldier seemed to understand Justin’s peculiar way of communicating better than anyone alive. And when they spoke, Justin felt as if he were conversing not with a veteran ghost, but a favorite uncle.
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Earl