Skip’s death had killed all the years he was supposed to have and all the things he was going to do—and one of those things was being Tom’s friend. His death had killed their friendship, their shared time and stories together as kids—now only Tom’s. It had killed their chance to be middle-aged, and old together, and make fun of each other for dropping their teeth and stuff. It had killed all that—for a war that made no fucking sense.
