When she was nine years old my daughter Kathleen asked if i had ever killed anyone
you keep writing about these war stories, so i guess you must've killed somebody
I reached out and found three grenades and lined them up in front of me; the pins had already been straightened for quick throwing. (while my friend kiowa was sleeping).
There were a lot of mosquitos. I remember slapping them, wondering if i should wake up Kiowa for some repellent, then thinking it was a bad idea, then looking up and seeing a young man come out of the fog. He wore black clothing and rubber sandals and a grey ammunition belt.
His shoulders were a little bit stooped, his head cocked to the side as if listening for something. He carried his weapon muzzle down.
In a way, it seemed, he was a part of the morning fog, or my own imagination , but there was also the reality of what was happening in my stomach.
I had already pulled the grenade. It was too late. A sick feeling started in my stomach, there were no thoughts on killing. The grenade was only to make him evaporate. The young man jerked upward. He fell on his back. His sandals have blown off. He lay at the center of the trail, his right leg bent beneath him, his one eye shut, the other with a huge star-shaped hole. He was gone.