The seat in the rest area outside of the door his life had vanished through was not nearly so comfortable as an old style park bench would have been. But it was what he had to rest upon as he considered his diagnosis. He had no idea how long he sat there pondering the previously imponderable, the nuts and bolts of hanging on or letting go. Which should it be?

How much did he want to suffer?

How badly did he want to live in this putrid society?

The shit they had sprayed on the plants of a distant land so that he could see the little bastards he had been sent there to kill, was now eating out his insides—as if it hadn’t already. As a young man, this country had literally spat upon him. Now, as an old man it had copiously shat upon him.

What now?

A strong voice, possibly military, brought him from his inner abyss, “Mister Reardon, Thomas Reardon?”

He looked up to see a strong, perfectly thick young man with a marine cut and a wide, satisfied smile. The fellow extended his hand and Thomas took it, meaning to rise. But the fellow stayed him with a hand and took the seat next to him. “Mister Reardon, I’m Brandt Larson, outpatient admittance—an intern. Just got out myself, and when I saw your service record, just had to stop by and say thanks—thanks for your service. Is there anything I can do for you? I’m clocked out for the day.”

The young man’s polo shirt and slacks seemed to deny his claim, but he did wear a hospital I.D. around his neck with that unmistakably wide head grinning from the photo.

Brandt then rose and motioned toward the door, ‘I’d be honored to buy you a beer, sir.”

“Absolutely, Brandt, a beer sounds great.”

The old soldier rose and walked out the door and down the hall with a man who might have been his younger self. This brought a pang of regret for not moving his family out of the city and seeing both his sons succumb to drug addiction. But with his GM job shipped overseas, he could not afford to move. Surely there was nothing that could be done to avenge himself upon society for that, or for the recent foreclosure.

But one never knew when Fate would see things his way.

Enough of Thomas Reardon’s grim plight, he thought.

“So, Brandt, what have you been doing to keep in shape? Interning from behind a desk doesn’t account for your fitness.”

The man met his gaze with his wide smile and dimpled chin and squinted through icy blue eyes, “Sir, I’m simply doing what I can do to make the world a better place for us.”

There was a clarity in his smile and diction that made Thomas an immediate admirer.

They continued down the hall, two men with many things in common.