In the morning, Brian wouldn’t talk about the dream except to say he had been in Vietnam, shot several times but wouldn’t die, and writhed in pain. After breakfast, he watched a documentary comparing Vietnam to World War Two.
“I need to be alone.”
Jim tried to calm him. “Why don’t we lift weights or sing while you hit the guitar?”
“I said I want to be alone. Are you deaf or stoned?”
“Sure.” Deflated, Jim left and shopped at the grocery store, something he’d procrastinated doing.
A woman pushed her cart forward and eyed him. “Jim, how are you?” She touched his arm. “You remember me, right?”
“You’re Bobby Wilson’s mom. I’m okay. Have you heard from Bobby?”
“He writes like a good boy and says basic training is hard, but he’s lost some weight and gotten stronger. He wants the army to ma
