He rubbed his eyes with a hand that shook. Brian closed one nostril, and snorted hard. A boot struck a beer, which tipped to spread over the hardwood floor. Empty can jangled in sour notes. Eyes burned and ached, no matter what he took. Cheri's light sobs crawled into his head with the persistence of a worm in a rotted apple. His right hand flexed, relaxed, and he punched his leg with a savage grin. Acid rose in his guts, which brought with it the taste of whiskey and barley. Bruised purple light were vibrant starbursts behind his eyes.

The sands of that foreign land stretched out before him, in the darkness of closed eyes. It was the same stretch of god-forsaken rock and sand that always came, when life was taxing. Every night for a year, less for years after, until it was a seldom. Now, it came when life became particularly stressful. It always left him shaken and covered in sweat. Above, the endless blue of the sky became a bruised purple, as if an alien nebula was cast upon cosmic winds. Event repeated, fate determined; yet, he tried to choose another path.

Brian finished off the whiskey; ignored Cheri's low cries and tears. He could see it so clearly. Even the grit, which seemed to get everywhere, scoured his face. Heat rose above the earth, all seemed a feverish mirage. Sometimes the stones of the earth were faces of old friends and enemies. Different, somehow, he thought. Part of him wondered if it was a combination of the alcohol and drugs. He recalled the sardonic smile on his buddy's face; bitter truths always went down rough.

"No blood for oil," Brian sneered. Everyone was for the war, until election time came. All lies, he mused. "It was never about oil." The words drifted between lips in a broken sigh, almost a cry. "I killed and I killed," he confessed to the ghost, which was alive only in memory.

"What Dad," Gage shifted with a shiver. When he talked about the war, he thought, he is smashed.

Brian's eyes opened to slits, brow drew down, and his lip curled up on one side. "Opium, BOY," he growled, "it was about a cheap source of opium, probably sold to the Chinese. It ended up back in America." He laughed, face crumpled.

"Are you okay?" he asked. Once his father had gotten drunk at the local bar called General's Shine, and it took a half dozen men to subdue him.

"I'm fine, Farley," he frowned, and the world wavered from his living room to that desert landscape. "They lied, and our friends died. Saving Democracy," he laughed, but his mouth worked like he tasted something bitter.

"You're okay, Dad," Gage shifted from one foot to the other. "It'll all be okay." He gripped his elbows to keep still: fast movements could agitate his father. Haas never acts like this, he thought. Their neighbor had served, but never behaved like Brian.

He laughed. "What would a little worm like you know?" he asked, shook his head. "Go get a pencil or something," Brian looked away. "I can't believe you're my son," he added in a distant whisper.

"Yeah Dad," he blushed, color high on pale cheeks, which never seemed to tan like his father.

"Now Brian," Cheri said, eyes fluttered and roamed the room. She picked at her lip, head nodded forward before it snapped back up.

He shook his head at his wife's words. "So smart, he is useless," Brian glanced at Cheri, but thought of Kayden. All of this was because of him. He ratted to those Grays; he thought and punched his leg. Kayden told the Queen of Lear Mountain, and they're snooping. Chris and Sheila disappeared. They left me holding the bag, he cursed.

"Sorry," Gage saw Moxie bound into the room, and waved her back out. She blinked, shrugged, and whirled away with a graceful twirl.

Brian's eyes roamed over the living room, but he searched for the flash of a sniper scope. This time, he promised, I'll save the Corporal. The ghost of Farley asked him if he wanted a piece of chocolate or a cigarette. "Why do you always try to give away your stuff?" he asked with a frown but smiled.

"I don't know," Gage looked over at his notebook. In stories he could escape. They never told you that you were weak or useless. If there were no one to ignore you, then you weren't alone.

Again, he searched for the flash of light on glass, but the desert dissolved. The living room returned. Corporal Farley shook out a cigarette and offered it, but he faded. He scratched his arm, as a red line traced over it. The razor thin cut sealed. His eyes ached, and for a moment, something swam across his vision. Brian blinked.

Chris and Sheila had complained about eye pain, he recalled. None remembered what Kayden had said, when he had returned. He should have minded his own business," Brian whispered. Kayden had found out about the women went to Sheila the HR Manager, but she was in on the deal. I should have known that laying him off wouldn't get rid of him. The Van Lear family, who did business with Leitch Industrial Company, was told of Brian's side women. They had tried to speak to Chris and Sheila, last he had heard. Tracy Chaney had discovered the little deal, but she seemed happy with perks at work. She was also great at gathering information.

"They'll send someone," Brian stood. Despite all the drugs and alcohol, he barely felt a buzz. There was a hissing click like a cicada crawled in his head, but it went quiet.

"Who'll come," Gage watched him stand. He looked for Moxie, but she was elsewhere with the shield he had reinforced for her. She had gotten interested in a comic book hero, who used one to defend justice.

"The Van Lear family," Brian threw up his hands. "Those filthy Confederate dogs, they'll send someone to TALK to me, probably Barnett." If they see my lab, he cursed, they won't bother with questions. They'll kill me, one way or another."