Dennis Michaels inspects himself in the mirror. His marine uniform is neatly starched and pressed, his face clean-shaven, his hair close-cropped. A flash from the scarlet and gold marine emblem pinned on his shoulder reflects brightly in the mirror. The eagle perched atop the anchored globe blazes under the banner of two words, Semper Fidelis. Always Faithful.

Dennis’ eyes harden like steel; his gaze burns into the emblem.
The reflection itself begins to grow stronger, like a flame, quickly becoming so magnified that it seems to penetrate the glass, forcing Dennis to shield his eyes with his hands. It is as if the sun itself is beating relentlessly down upon him.

It is the sun, perched high in the sky on a warm summer afternoon. Dennis stands under it solemnly, his mood in stark contrast to the landscape of rolling green hills, amber shades of grass, and perfect blue of the sky. This place looks familiar. It reminds him of one of his childhood homes
in New Jersey. Was it number six, or seven? He can’t remember; he lost count long ago. A large maple tree stands stoically in the foreground, offering its shade. He notices it for the first time. How did I not see it? It is just like the one Harry used to describe.

Harry.

Suddenly, Dennis’ focus becomes involuntarily narrowed, as if a tunnel of pressure has physically imposed itself around his eyes. It feels like he is wearing blinders worn by a horse, an apocalyptic horse. A deafening noise drowns out all other sound, unlike anything he has ever heard before; he imagines it to be the roar of a run-away train barreling down the tracks, operated by a phantom conductor waving his arms. A diabolical musical score is unleashed inside Dennis’ head, growing louder and louder until it transforms his sensory perception from the surreal to the corporeal.

Dennis looks down at his feet. He is startled to find a gray tombstone before him. Inscribed in the granite are the words:

HARRY E. WILLIAMS
BORN MARCH 20, 1947
DIED APRIL 5, 1967

Dennis falters backward. Harry’s grave. This is Harry’s grave. Why am I here? His body becomes rigid and he finds it hard to breathe; his throat feels tight, constricted; he takes a gulp of air and tries to swallow, but the air gets caught in the lump forming in his throat. He feels something dangling
around his neck, something that feels eerily like a noose. He grabs for it, wishing it to be just his imagination, but to his horror, he makes contact, and the rough bristles of braided rope feel course in his grasp. He seizes it, furiously ripping it away from his body, but something is attached. A camera.

Harry’s camera.

Dennis stands above his best friend’s grave clutching that friend’s sole possession, and he can’t shake the feeling that something else is horribly, dreadfully wrong. No shit, Sherlock. Beads of sweat form at his brow. Finally, a realization dawns over him that he is missing something. What?
He searches his uniform; thrusting his left arm deep into his pocket, and fumbles around as if looking for a lost set of keys. Curiously, his right arm doesn’t budge. Something is very wrong. He wants to shake himself, cross his arms over his shoulders, and tell himself, “Get a grip!” But he can’t. A sickening feeling sweeps over his body. Oh my god.

“No . . . !” Dennis shouts at the top of his lungs.

His right arm is gone. Amputated. His uniform hangs limply from the severed stump of his shoulder. His stomach turns as if a thousand-pound weight has just been dropped from the sky, hitting him squarely in the gut. Bulls-eye. He groans loudly, expelling every ounce of air from his lungs.

His body jerks upright.

Dripping with sweat, heart pounding, Dennis looks over at the clock. It is 4:10 am.

“Good fucking morning.” Dennis bids himself a sarcastic greeting, shaking his head in disgust. The same dream. Always the same damn dream.