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Smoke--it was everywhere. Blood was everywhere, too. And there was fire. A deafening squeal shuddered in the air; it sliced through everything all at once and it didn't stop. His head reeled. He was lying flat--no, he was on his side, contorted. His sight was level with the gritty, rock strewn road.

_ The sand was stained dark brown all around him. The smell of burnt plastic and gasoline and gun powder scraped like blades through his nostrils and down his throat. He felt so heavy. He wanted to move, but his body refused. What had happened? Where was his team? His friends? Did Johnson set off a grenade by accident?_

_ He felt his heart beating. But it didn't feel right--it didn't pound, it quivered and sloshed and he didn't like it._

_ A coppery twang spilled into his mouth and drowned his tongue. His stomach and chest heaved and blood gushed from between his teeth. The world spun. He felt disembodied--snapped in half and at two places at once. It was so hot. He writhed and tossed his head. A course wind picked up and he clasped his eyes closed as the world swam in a smoky brown, sand-strewn haze. Opening them again, he saw the Humvee. It was black and exploded out into torn strips of steel, the engine blown apart, the tires gone, the interior completely disintegrated. He blinked, and then he saw their pieces._

_ They were strewn everywhere: Limbless torsos, shattered skulls, arms with jagged bone glinting through singed uniforms, a flesh-stripped paw, an ear...The dirt was muddied red where they'd been spilt. Johnson, Steele, Scuttle, Blink...they couldn't be dead. Not like this._

_ Maybe he was dead too. Maybe his pieces were littered amongst his partner's. Maybe he was trapped in his ravaged remains, unable to escape into the afterlife. No...no, his painlessness began to recede. He felt the agony welling up inside him, and then it exploded through him like liquid fire._

_ Scream. All he could do was scream. If he wasn't dead, then he wanted to die because the pain was too much._

_ His left arm floundered and struck something--a gun maybe. He could end it. He wanted to. He grabbed it, the world tinged red at the edges of his sight, and pulled it to him, but it wasn't a gun: It was an arm._

_ His arm._

Dante awoke with a scream breaking raw from his throat. For an instant he forgot where he was. The navy walls of his room appeared black in the night, glossy posters with edges flaring white from the moonlight filtering in through his window. He almost ran, but before his feet touched the hardwood floors he remembered that he was home. He was safe.

It was only a nightmare.

But--no--it wasn't just a terrible dream. That scene, the carnage, was all a memory. It happened like that. He'd seen it all.

Huffing ragged breaths, Dante perched on the edge of his bed. His mind felt clouded and thick from exhaustion. He just stared blankly at his feet with the darkness in his room swirling in mass around him. Sweat had coursed frigid over his skin and soaked his fur, and droplets trickled down the bridge of his snout to dangle off the end of his nose before plummeting to the floor. There was already a hefty puddle between his feet when his door was flung open and the light was switched on.

She didn't say anything, but he knew it was his mother. He didn't look up, but he bet she was watching with her paws clasped over her muzzle to muffle her cries. She hated seeing him like this--so distraught and agonized. He hated knowing that he made her upset. She didn't deserve it.

"Oh, baby boy," she said, her voice wavering as she came and kneeled before her son. Quinn had inherited their mother's looks--silver fur, amber eyes, wavy brown hair--but she'd picked up her mannerisms as well. He winced as his mother's paw stroked his cheek--he couldn't help it--but she didn't seem to notice. She'd probably gotten used to his pained reactions by now seeing as his screams in the night were commonplace since he'd returned, but she always cried no matter what.

Tears spilled from Dante's own eyes. "I'm sorry, momma," he whimpered. "I know you're tired of this. I'm so sorry..."

She shushed him and held his head in her shaking paws. "Hush, now. I don't want to hear that." He gazed into her eyes as she wiped his tears away. Her smile came close to breaking. "You can't help it, and I don't get tired of comforting you." She patted the side of his face. "Okay, baby?"

He nodded, feeling consoled...for the moment.

She kissed him gently on his damp forehead. "You're going to be alright. It'll get better. Everything will get better." She glanced at his bandaged shoulder. "How's that feeling?"

Dante looked at his wound, his skin chilling and fur bristling as he surveyed the round, knotted stump. He doubted that he'd ever get used to looking at it.

The gauze was clean for the most part, stretched from above the socket of his shoulder to his middle chest, perfectly square and held there with adhesive stuck to his grey skin that was shaved of its fur. There was a dark brown spot, the size of a tennis ball, right in the middle, but the doctor had said there'd be discharge from the wound for a while. Such a sickeningly serious injury wouldn't be complete without months of bloody puss after all.

"Better," he muttered. "It itches, but I think that's from my fur growing back."

"Does it still hurt bad?"

"Not a lot," he said, lying. "If it gets cold or rain's coming it aches."

She nodded stiffly. He couldn't tell her that he could practically feel every beat of his heart in the wound, that each movement he made caused the damn thing to blossom with pain. But it wasn't so much the residual damage of the torn muscles and fragmented nerves that bothered him. More so, it was the fact that he could always feel his shoulder joint pop in its emptiness, his muscles writhing and coiling randomly, his ribs along his right side doing the same in a domino effect. It was as if that half of him knew something was missing and it wanted it back, protesting constantly to his incompleteness.

"Well," his mother said. "At least we'll get a decent weather report."

"Yeah," he sighed, smiling, his tail wagging weakly.

Her ears drooped. She knew he was exhausted. The bags under his eyes made him look like he'd been awake for weeks. She knew he was suffering, and that knowledge ripped her heart out.

"Do you need a pain pill? To help you sleep?"

She whimpered as he shook his head. "No. I've taken all I was supposed to take until morning." He sighed heavily, his muscled chest expanding and quivering as he took in the breath and released it. "I've seen what happens when furs get too dependent on that crap, and I'm already messed up enough as it is. I'll be fine."

"Honey," she moaned, but Dante shook his head.

He'd given her his painkillers, antidepressants, and other medications to lay out for him day by day. He'd told her to hide the bottles somewhere he couldn't find them and to never give him more than he was prescribed to take. She thought he was being silly at first, but after he'd told her about other injured soldiers becoming addicted to their painkillers, essentially becoming druggies and ruining their lives, she'd done what he'd asked. He'd never begged for more than he needed, and she never found evidence that he was trying to find the medicine, but that didn't stop her from asking if he needed one more pain or sleeping pill. She just wanted to help her son. Consoling him, checking his wound, and giving him medicine was all she knew to do to be there for him.

"I'm alright," he said.

"Okay," she said, kissing him again. "Try to get some rest. I love you, Dante."

"I love you too, momma."

"Goodnight, baby."

And she went back to bed, turning off his light and gently closing the door behind her.

But Dante didn't go back to sleep; he didn't even try. His alarm clock said it was 5:45am anyway--morning practically. So he quietly fumbled in the dark and pulled on some clothes--a pair of jeans, a red zip-up hoodie (not even bothering with a shirt), and some old sneakers--and then he slipped out of his room, out of his house, and went for a walk.

The early morning was brisk. His wet nose soon felt like it was capped in ice, and his wound grew tight and throbbed a bit. He didn't turn back, though. He stood for a while and watched the fading stars twinkle and the moon shine in its silent halo, and then he tottered down his street, away from his home and toward the creek.

He'd always gone to the creek as a child. When the days grew too hot the babble of the stream was sweet to pass up, and it was where he ventured right after school with Chess when the two friends had nothing better to do than skip rocks or hunt crawdads. But, after Chess died, Dante didn't go to the creek that much anymore--how could he? He couldn't play where his best friend had been killed: drowned after some perverted scumbag had his way with him.

It wouldn't have been right.

But, nonetheless, Dante found himself shuffling along the bank of the shallow flow of water in the dark. He didn't know why he was there, but he found it nice to recall good days spent splashing and laughing. He picked up a round, smooth stone, weighed it in his left paw, and tried to skip it for old time's sake. It plunked into the stream without even a splash. He hadn't been left handed before his accident, so it was difficult to get used to, and he still hadn't made much progress in learning. The fact that he couldn't legibly write his own name made his failed skipping attempt less of an annoyance and more than laughable. He chuckled and tried again, getting the same resulting plunk.

Continuing along the bank, he found himself peering across the creek, up the hill on the other side, and out to the houses along School street. Dickson was over there somewhere, and the black wolf's gut warmed at the thought of the chocolate schnauzer. He'd just met him yesterday, but the friendly, caring, handsome little dog had already seemed to work his way heavily into Dante's thoughts. After the bus ride the afternoon before, they'd made plans to head out to Lake Waccamaw for a little R&R on Dickson's pontoon that he'd inherited from his father (as well as the cabin that it was docked at.) They were just going to fish, drink, grill, and get to know one another better. Dante couldn't wait. It had been so long since he'd had time to enjoy himself, and Dickson...well, he couldn't wait to see him.

Carefully--_very carefully--_Dante hopped from stone to stone, wavering unsteadily and slipping a few times, until he crossed the creek. He felt a little odd with himself as he climbed the bank and hill and then crossed to School street, gazing at the house where Dickson lived. He knew he couldn't sleep and that he didn't have anything better to do, but--still--he felt like a stalker as he looked on, somewhat hoping to see signs of life from within the red accented ranch house.

"I'm disturbed," he groaned to himself.

Then he jumped, his shoulder stinging, as a light flicked on inside and a side door opened. The military drills forced to instinct within Dante's head caused him to crouch behind a hedge as he watched Dickson hop down his steps to take out some garbage. Even in the dark Dante could see that the schnauzer was in nothing but his underwear. His toned, slender body was impressive--especially for someone who was missing a leg and hindered a bit in their athletic performance. But, then again, the prosthetic Dickson had on was different than the one Dante had seen on the bus. It wasn't heavy or clunky looking; instead it was flat and blade-like, curved and springy. He didn't seem to have any trouble walking with it. Maybe it was a lighter, more athletic version or something--a sports car versus the utility vehicle he'd had strapped on before.

After tossing his garbage bag into a bin next to his garage, Dante watched as Dickson--

"Oh shit," the wolf hissed.

The schnauzer was coming down his driveway right toward him. His heart began to race. He could not let his new friend, his possibility for a future relationship, find him skulking behind a hedge and scoping out his house. He bet--no, he knew--that'd be the end of it right there. It was weird.

But as Dante attempted to slip away, back toward the hill and the creek, Dickson paused at the end of the driveway. He looked left and right, and then he bent over and touched his toes and the foot of his prosthetic. He stretched this way and that, limbering up, and then he bounced a little. Dante couldn't help but watch. The atmosphere began to lighten as the sun started to rise, and in the morning haze Dickson's chiseled form was something else to see. And, now that he looked, Dante saw that the schnauzer was in running shorts--not underwear. He'd been right. Dickson's new prosthetic was for sports.

He marveled as the schnauzer bounced some more and then took off like a bullet down the street. His muscles bunched and coiled, and soon he was out of sight, enjoying his morning exercise.

Dante couldn't believe it. Even given his disability, Dickson didn't let it keep him from enjoying himself and enjoying life. Why, then, should Dante?

He rose from behind the hedge, a spark of excitement lighting in his core, and slipped back toward his home in the light of a beautiful morning.

Seeing Dickson still doing something he loved no matter his loss of limb made Dante want to do the same. Besides, he'd forgotten how much he loved baseball.