Temporary pain. Permanent loss.

It was the same damn fight again. Nothing new, just louder this time. Same sharp words. Same hurt looks. At least Amy had taken the kids to the neighborhood BBQ. Gave him some space, her peace of mind.

Blake knelt on the basement floor, dust clinging to his jeans. The air was thick with mildew, the kind of heavy stillness that clung to memories. A single bulb flickered overhead. Mak

ing the shadows dance. Everything sat where he left it. The pelican cases, duffel bags, uniforms that smelled faintly of sand and smoke. Thick dust blanketed it all like snow.

“I should have taken better care of this crap” he said.

He unzipped a duffel and dumped it in front of him. Medals, letters, a torn photo, an omelet MRE.

“Which of you put this nasty shit in my gear?” He said.

The Sig M17 clattered out last. Scuffed but solid. Blake picked up the photo. Six men in desert camo, arms draped over each other. He hardly recognized his own smile. He sat down, legs crossed and sat the photo on top of the pile. He picked up the M17.

“See you soon.” He said.

He slid the barrel past his teeth. The cold metal touched the roof of his mouth.

“I’m sorry Amy.” He said. “I’m just… so tired.”

He squeezed the trigger.

Click.

Silence.

He pulled the slide, reset the trigger and squeezed again.

Nothing.

“What the hell? I just cleaned this thing!” He said.

“What about the feed ramp?” Said an unknown voice.

The voice was calm and steady. It came from the top of the stairs.

Blake spun around. A figure stood just inside the doorway. Uniform pressed, boots polished, the posture of someone who never forgot basic training. Blake stood, confused and angry.

“Who the hell are you? Howd you get in here?” Said Blake

The man stepped into the light. his face looked like it had seen a thousand sunrises in the same desert.

“The names Sergeant Jones. But you can call me Chris.” He said.

“ok….Chris. You didn’t answer my question.”

“Your weapon misfired. Mine did the same thing years back. Only difference is the second time it worked. I didn’t get a second chance at life. You do”

“You can’t be serious? Are you telling me you’re a ghost or something?”

“Let’s just stay I’m stuck in between.” Chris said. “I made a vow after I died. To show up when it matters. Check A Vet has kept my story alive. That’s why I’m here.”

“Second chance huh? It’s been 10 years since I lost my guys. I wake up hearing them scream. I close my eyes and they’re still there. You’re telling me THAT’S gonnna change?” Blake said.

“It hurts,” Chris said “Hell yes it hurts. But you’re still breathing. That means someone still needs you. Maybe it’s your family. Maybe it’s another vet. Maybe someone who’ll hear your story through Check A Vet one day.”

Blake looked down at the pistol. His hand trembled. He laid the photo back in the duffel. Then the pistol. He zipped it closed and placed it the corner of the basement. Outside through the floorboards, he could her kids laughing. Fireworks popped in the distance. The smell of a grill drifting its way into the basement.

He sat for a moment, just breathing. Then stood and walked up the stairs, into the light bleeding in through the door.