Page 94 of Commit

Atlas looks at me, just as lost as I am.

“What do you mean they were never here? You said you knew them. Said you worked with them until eight months ago?”

I see a lightbulb go off above his head. “Oh, no, I’m sorry. I thought you knew. I did counsel them both, but it wasn’t here. I moved here eight months ago to be closer to my sick mother.”

“Where do you know them from then?”

“The community center in Vanway.”

I look at Atlas. That’s only a few miles from home. So why the fuck did they end up here?

We thank him for his time and leave the center, making our way over to the recruitment center on the other side of the building.

“Can I help you?” a soldier asks, standing behind a white desk in full uniform.

“We’re looking into the deaths of some friends of mine.”

“Kyle and Conner?”

“You knew them?”

“Not really. I met them when they came here once with their lawyer to dispute something. How do you know them?”

“We were stationed together in Afghanistan just after 9/11.”

He shakes his head. “My team was one of the last to leave. I can’t even imagine what it was like out there back then.”

“Worse than you think. So it pisses me off that they made it home when so many of our brothers didn’t, only for them to get killed here.”

The soldier nods, gritting his teeth.

“The guy next door said the twins went for counseling.”

“A few guys here do.” He shrugs.

“After they get back, they’re expected to visit high schools and colleges, giving people the patriotic speech about enlisting.”

I blink, hearing the bitterness in his voice. “And that pisses you off.”

“Only because they’re selling an image one moment and struggling to get help now that they’re home the next. We’re not only soldiers when we’re fighting. We’re soldiers when we carry our brothers’ caskets on our shoulders. When we cheer on their kids playing Little League because we made a promise to a dying man that we would. We’re still soldiers when a car backfires, and we’re right back in the sandbox, ducking gunfire or screaming at night for the decisions we were forced to make?—”

“Like shooting a little girl when you know it was both the right and the wrong thing to do,” I finish quietly.

“See, you get it. But there are a lot of people who think that once we take our uniform off, we take off the memories. And that’s not how it works at all.”

“Hence the counseling next door.”

“Yeah, honestly, most of us here need it. It helps. We compare stories and battle our demons together. We’re lucky. Not everyone has that. And considering none of the counselors are military, they’re all pretty fucking good with us. You should check it out.”

“I found my own kind of therapy,” I say, smirking when I notice Atlas’s lips twitch.

The door opens, and a high school kid walks in, looking nervous.

“We’ll be out of your hair in a second. But I have to ask, do you remember the name of their lawyer or who they were here to see?”

“No, sorry. I was on a call at the time. I heard something about good PR due to them both getting Purple Hearts, but that’s all I caught. Sorry I can’t be more help, but I’ve gotta see to this.” He nods to the kid looking at the black-and-white photos covering the walls.

“Thanks for talking to us.”