It was the mornings that David hated most. A debilitating weakness permeated throughout his entire body and had replaced the sense of adventure that ran through him as a child. His enmity was not a typical disgust with leaving the comfort of a warm bed, it was cultured from the scraping and stealing of his spirit to seize the day. He tried going to sleep early, he visited the doctor to ask for sleeping pills, he had even tried completely changing his sleep schedule by taking a night job. It was one year two months and eighteen days ago, and he could not rest.

It was morning his small kitchen. The room was in shadows, poorly lit by an underpowered light bulb, and accented by brownish fake wood paneling. Beams of sunlight peaked through the slits in the eastward facing window. It was a room of contrast, the sunlight playing foil to an otherwise drab scene.

“Khe Sanh, I remember that lasting for months,” she said as she dropped a slice of garlic in the skillet.

“That was a different fight,” David said laying out two plates, fork on the left, knife on the right. His posture stood strong but his head limped to his right.

There was silence that lasted dangerously long, finally broken by the crackling and popping of heated oil.

“What did you feel, when you saw them coming out of the ground?” she asked.

David looked up at her with a vacant stare, focusing on no part of her body, rather a fixed point beyond her that seemed to flare out in infinite directions.

“I felt like I was going to die,” he said dispassionately.

David sat down slowly in his chair. He ran his thumb across his left hand as if healing a wound, “I remember my mother always told me to have hope. Have hope that dad will return home, have hope for our town, have hope for my safety. She said a man is not broken until his regrets take the place of his dreams.”

His mouth twitched to one side, squeezing his cheek and eye together, “I feel as if I am rushing towards a bottomless regret. Sometimes I wonder if I am already there.”