A memory of Wyatt calling me at the Marine bunkhouse pops into my mind. “Charlie ain’t gonna make it, D,” he had said tearfully. “He’s putting whiskey on his goddamn corn flakes.” Real fear had hit me then. My brother was going to fall drunk off a roof before he got over Maggie. Because I wasn’t fucking there. I was overseas, recuperating after a special-ops mission with my team had gone to shit. Emergency leave was non-negotiable. I was stuck. So, I took a bullet on purpose. Charlie was my mission. I wasn’t putting my brother in the fucking ground. Not another one. Not my blood.
