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.
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.”