More Than Enough
Page 3

I reach for the kid’s hand to look for a pulse but his eyes snap open, stopping me.
He takes a final breath.
A final attempt.
A single, final shot.
More screams.
Then I feel the pain.
And I fall.
 
 
One
 

Dylan
Medics. Helicopters.
Doctors.
That’s pretty much all I remember after the kid let off his final round. That and an indescribable pain in my right shoulder.
Then there was the flight back home. The stares and the proud smiles as I hopped off the plane. The unwarranted attention and the nods of acknowledgment from random strangers and finally, an eerily silent cab ride home. Which is where I am now, standing on the sidewalk in front of a house I haven’t been to since I left for basic. The house hasn’t changed. Still the same single story, timber cladded, tiny home surrounded by a chain-link fence. It’s a different color now, I notice, which means Dad finally got around to repainting it like he’d been meaning to do since we moved in eight years ago.
The TV inside is loud—louder than necessary, like it always has been. The flickering of the screen illuminates the front window of the living room, causing a light display on the front lawn.
I exhale loudly, my left hand going to my pocket and fingering my set of keys. It feels wrong to use them. Almost as wrong as it feels to knock on the door.
With another sigh, I turn my back on the house and everything it represents. Just for a moment. Because I need the time to settle down, to think, to breathe. Tilting my head, eyes narrowed, I stare at the horizon, completely fascinated by it. Strange, I know, but it seems off—the way the sun sets over the earth. It feels calm. And that calmness makes me want to run. Fast. So does thinking about Dad’s reaction to seeing me. The pride in his eyes—pride greater than the smiles from everyone when I landed on home soil. Sure it was meant to be comforting, but it wasn’t. It just made me mad—because while I was here with an injured shoulder, my brothers were there. And the threats we were all searching for—they were everywhere… even in the hands and eyes of a scared shitless little boy.

I blink hard, trying to push back the memories but the pain in my shoulder reminds me of the truth. It always does. Frustrated, I remove my hat and pick up my bag, then ignore the thumping of my heart as I kick open the metal gate and make my way up the uneven pavers of the path toward my home. Home.
Like that’s supposed to mean something.
I take one more look over my shoulder at the horizon, hoping the calmness it emits will somehow make its way to me. It doesn’t. And without another thought, I drop my bag and raise my fist.
Knock knock.
Nothing.
I knock again. Stronger and harder so it can be heard over the television.
Silence.
He’s muted the TV. I know that much. The screen still flickers but besides that, nothing.
A light shines on the side of the house from the neighbor’s car as they pull into the driveway. I peel my eyes away from the lady stepping out and raise my fist again, but before I can knock, the sound of the TV starts again. Laughter, both from the TV and from the man watching it—a deep roar of a chuckle that flips my insides.
I smile.
For the first time since before the “incident,” I smile. And that smile, that emotion, that sense of home is enough to make me reach into my pocket and pull out my keys. I unlock the door and with the key still in the lock, I grab my bag and push open the front door. The smell of gravy fills my nostrils and has my stomach turning.
Two steps.
That’s all it takes for me to move from the front door, through the hallway, and into the doorway of the living room. I ignore the loudness of the television and look at my dad sitting in his recliner, a frozen dinner tray on his lap, his eyes on the screen and his fork halfway to his mouth.
He’s aged more than I expected, but besides that, he’s still my old man. Still the man who raised me. His dark beard is longer than I ever remember seeing it and for a moment I try to recall if I’ve ever seen him without one. I don’t think I have. Through all twenty-three years of my existence he’s had the same beard. Same huge towering frame. Same gentle tone and blank expression.
I clear my throat, preparing my voice so he can hear me. “Dad.”
He freezes, everything but his eyes. They drift shut. And I know what he’s doing because it’s exactly what I’d be doing too. He’s waiting. Making sure he’s not dreaming… like the countless times I’d try to hear his voice over there during the times I’d needed to find it within myself to help me get through it all.
“Dad,” I repeat, louder, because I want him to hear me. I want him to feel the same way I felt when I’d heard his voice.
His eyes snap open, his head shifting to the side and when he sees me, his eyes widen quickly. About as quickly as he stands, dropping his food onto the worn carpeted floor. He doesn’t speak. Neither do I. We’ve never been much for talking. But he runs. Okay, maybe not runs… but that’s what it seems like. At least to me. And before I can tell him to slow down because I know he’s about to hurt me, I’m in his arms, held tight, and sure it fucking hurts… the sharp pain runs from my shoulder and down my back, but I ignore it. Just like I ignore the shaking of his shoulders as he holds me to him, gripping the back of my shirt in his fists. I ignore time. I ignore the way he wipes his eyes as he finally releases me and stands back, his gaze taking me in from head to toe. Then he smiles.
So do I.
And then I hear the sound that gave me the calm I needed to walk through the door. He laughs, deep and gruff. “Jesus Christ, son. You are a sight for sore eyes.”
“You too, old man.”
“You on R&R?”
I shake my head. “Medical.”
His eyes widen, just slightly. Then he looks me over again. “Where?” he asks.
“Shoulder.” I point to it.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“Bullet?”
I press my lips together and nod.
“Ah, shit! I probably just made it worse,” he mumbles, shaking his head, his hands on his hips.
“Nah. You’re good.”
He rubs his hands together, his smile back in place and his gaze still on me. “Well.” He claps once. “You hungry?”
“Yeah,” I say through a smile wider than his.
“Why don’t you go shower and I’ll heat you up some food.”
“Sounds great.” I take a few steps down the hall toward my old room before he curses behind me.
“Your brother’s taken over your room for his computer gear. If I’d known—”
“It’s fine,” I tell him, cutting him off. “I’ll make it…” My words die in the air when I open my bedroom door, or at least what used to be a bedroom. Now it’s just a room with no bed filled with more metal junk than I’d know what do with. “I can’t even see the floor.”
“Yeah,” Dad says with a sigh. “He’s been into all that shit since he got home from his deployment. He calls it work. I don’t even know what the hell he does with it all.”
“Where is Eric anyway?”