Buried by Robert Vaughan

She crushes out a cigarette on the patio. Shakes her head.

“Trent’ll call soon,” I say. “You’ll see.”

But we both know he won’t. The plane went down in the Hindu Kush.

Over a week ago. Still missing. A celebrated pilot in the air force. That’s where we’d all met, Pensacola boot camp in 2005.

Then Debbie and I both got pregnant. Return tickets home. We were lucky to score jobs at the Wal-Mart in Keene.

She still doesn’t know it was the same guy.

Trent.

She lights another Marlboro.

I grab it from her. Extinguish it.

“It’s all I have,” she pleads.

“Debbie don’t,” I say. “Think of your kid.”