Matt shook his head. "I don't even have a fake ID."

Francis whistled through his teeth. "Your brain really did get shook up, kid."

He helped Matt back to his bed, practically carrying him the last few yards, then turned back the covers and laid him down with a gentleness that shocked Matt.

"What did those MPs want with you?" Matt said as Francis was about to leave.

Francis gazed out the window. "The truth?" he said, looking at some invisible point in the distance. "It's like Jack Nicholson said. You can't handle the truth."

MATT SAT IN BED FLIPPING THROUGH THE PAGES OF A BOOK of World Series trivia he'd found in the bathroom while the new guy in the bed across from him played with a yo-yo. Outside, he could hear the dull thrum of the hospital generator. A car drove by, its radio blaring a Middle Eastern tune-leaving a few quivering notes of the singer's voice in its wake. of World Series trivia he'd found in the bathroom while the new guy in the bed across from him played with a yo-yo. Outside, he could hear the dull thrum of the hospital generator. A car drove by, its radio blaring a Middle Eastern tune-leaving a few quivering notes of the singer's voice in its wake.

He knew that song from somewhere. He put down the trivia book and stared at the bobbing yo-yo. But what he saw was a dusty alleyway. An overturned car. A candy wrapper snagged on a coil of razor wire. Bullets kicking up sparks on the pavement. A mangy dog with a crooked tail.

"They all sound the same, don't they?"

Matt blinked. The soldier with the yo-yo was talking to him. The man was sort of short, but he was well-built, with biceps so big, they stretched the sleeves of his T-shirt. His head was shaved clean and shaped like a bullet and he had a tattoo on one arm that said Mom. Mom.

"Their songs," the guy said, not missing a beat as the yo-yo slid up and down on its string. "It's always some chick with a high voice yodeling."

As the last strains of the song died out, Matt thought again of the dusty alleyway. All of the alleys in Baghdad looked the same-piles of plaster where mortar rounds had hit the buildings, flat tires and abandoned car parts in the middle of the street, razor wire and graffiti everywhere. But right in the middle of all that chaos, all that destruction, you'd stumble on signs of family life-laundry flapping in the wind, a chicken pecking in a yard, a radio playing from somewhere inside.

"I know that song," Matt said flatly.

"What? You listen to that s.h.i.t?" The guy had curled the yo-yo into his palm, stopping its rhythmic motion.

"No," said Matt. "Not really."

The guy swiveled a little so his back was almost facing Matt and he pointed to a spot on his shoulder. "Shot," he said. "By a sniper."

Matt nodded to show his appreciation. "So are they sending you to Germany?"

"No f.u.c.king way," he said. "They wanted to, but I told them 'f.u.c.k no.' Told them I was going to stay here and get better as fast as I can so I could get back out there with my boys."

"Oh." This guy was like Charlene: 110 percent committed to the mission. But he loved his squad, that was for sure.

Matt thought about his squad, about Justin, about Wolf and Figueroa, about their new squad leader, Sergeant McNally. The first thought that came to mind wasn't a firefight or a door-to-door search.

It was the time Wolf's mom sent him a bunch of cans of Silly String. The whole squad ran around the barracks, hiding and ambushing one another, spraying neon green Silly String everywhere, imitating the ack-ack ack-ack sound of an M16 each time they fired. They were sound of an M16 each time they fired. They were playing playing war, Matt remembered thinking, while a real one was raging outside. war, Matt remembered thinking, while a real one was raging outside.

As he watched Wolf squirt Silly String down the back of Figueroa's shirt, he remembered thinking, This This is what war is all about. It wasn't about fighting the enemy. It wasn't about politics or oil or even about terrorists. It was about your buddies; it was about fighting for the guy next to you. And knowing he was fighting for you. is what war is all about. It wasn't about fighting the enemy. It wasn't about politics or oil or even about terrorists. It was about your buddies; it was about fighting for the guy next to you. And knowing he was fighting for you.

He thought about Itchy, wondering if the guys in his squad were taking care of him. He could picture them, on their cots inside the abandoned school that they were using as their base. At this time of night, Figueroa would be writing to his wife, Matt and Justin would be playing Halo, and Wolf would be cleaning his weapon or doing push-ups. And Itchy would be curled up in the shape of a comma at the foot of his cot, purring.

A SHADOW FELL OVER THE BED AND SHADOW FELL OVER THE BED AND M MATT OPENED HIS EYES TO see Francis standing above him, his leg twitching. "Here," he said, holding out what looked like a small paperback book. "I traded some Vicodin for it." see Francis standing above him, his leg twitching. "Here," he said, holding out what looked like a small paperback book. "I traded some Vicodin for it."

Matt studied the thing in his hand. It was a notebook with a picture of a basket of puppies on the front.

"I know," Francis said. "It's kind of 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell,' but it was all I could find. Got it off a nurse from Mobile."

Matt flipped through the empty pages of the book, not quite sure what he was supposed to do with it.

"Write down everything you know," Francis said. "Everything about what happened the day they brought you in here. When they bring you over to Fuchs's office, you'll at least have something."

And then Francis disappeared, leaving Matt sitting there, staring at the blank first page of the notebook. Fuchs's office. He struggled to remember who Fuchs was. Kwong had mentioned him. Was Fuchs the one who was going to question him, write up a report? Francis seemed pretty worked up about the whole thing. But Kwong had said it was routine under these circ.u.mstances. What did that mean?

There was so much Matt didn't know. He was in the hospital because of an RPG-Justin had told him that much. But he didn't remember anything about the attack. Kwong said it was because of that brain thing he had. And he said he might have trouble learning new information. So Matt made two lists: the things he did know and the things he didn't.

The list of things he didn't know included big things and small ones. The details of the attack. Where his squad was now. What exactly Francis had done to end up in trouble. When he'd last heard from Caroline. Where he'd seen that dog with the crooked tail.

When it came time to list the things he did know, he couldn't think of anything he knew for sure.

A LETTER FROM LETTER FROM C CAROLINE WAS SITTING ON HIS BEDSIDE TABLE when he woke up the next morning. The army, despite all the many ways it was screwed up, always managed to get the mail delivered-even when they were out in some nowhere town in Iraq. And now they'd forwarded the letter from his old barracks to the hospital. when he woke up the next morning. The army, despite all the many ways it was screwed up, always managed to get the mail delivered-even when they were out in some nowhere town in Iraq. And now they'd forwarded the letter from his old barracks to the hospital.

He looked at the envelope. On the front someone had scrawled the name of the hospital. On the back was a message from Justin.

Figueroa says he's gonna eat all your mom's cookies if you don't get back soon. And Wolf says he wants your picture of JLo if you don't make it.P.S. Fruit of the Month Club called; they want you to be Miss October.

Inside was Caroline's familiar writing.

Dear Matt,Hey, baby, hope you're doing good and killing lots of bad guys. I sent you some beef jerky like you asked and some baby wipes. My mom thought that was weird, but I explained about how you don't get to shower and all.I'm gonna have to keep this short because I have to study for bio. Mrs. Crane said we were gonna have a pop quiz, but that was a while ago and I think it might be any day now. I'm sooo scared. I hate bio and I have dreams that the test is today and everybody knows but me and I forgot to study. I try to look off Brad Rigby's paper in the dream and he tells Crane. OMG! I hate bio.Anyhow, I hope you're good and that you're keeping your gun clean. I saw on TV how the sand gets in them and they don't work. They also said on TV that soldiers like to get tuna fish in those little single-serve packets. Or Crystal Light On the Go packets. Do you want me to send you some?Love ya, CarolineP.S. We beat Briar Cliff last week. This week it's Upper Westfield. Ugh! I hate them!P.P.S. My little brother did a report on you at school last week. He brought in that old dollar bill you sent from when Saddam was king.

Matt read the letter three times over, culling through it for hidden meanings in every word. Why did she mention Brad Rigby? And why was she dreaming about him? What did that mean? Everything else suddenly seemed stupid. She was back home and "sooo scared" about a pop quiz in bio while he was in Iraq with some traumatic brain injury.

The normalness of her letters-the bland, ordinary details of high school life-used to make him feel good, like things were the same at home even if he was gone. He'd told himself that that was what he was fighting for: so Caroline and his mom and Lizzy could go to the mall or watch that show they liked, Gossip Girl, Gossip Girl, and do whatever they did and not have to worry. and do whatever they did and not have to worry.

But now it bugged him that she was suddenly like some expert on the war, telling him to clean his gun and asking if he wanted single-serving packs of tuna. And she'd signed her letter "love ya." That was what she and her girlfriends said when they hung up on their cell phones-or what you say to your mom when you leave the house. What was that supposed to mean?

He looked up from the letter and saw Francis standing next to his bed. He was holding a jar with some kind of cream in his hands.

"'A lightweight lotion that packs all the moisturizing benefits of beta-carotene into a sheer, easily absorbed base,"' he read from the label in a lisping, mock-gay voice. "'The natural way to repair and revive sun-damaged skin.'"

He opened the jar and sniffed. "My kid sister sent it to me," he said. "I told her I needed sunscreen." He shook his head. "Girls. They're like a different species, you know?"

Matt put his hands to his cheeks, an imitation of the Home Alone Home Alone kid. "OMG!" he said in a high, girly voice. "That's what my girlfriend says," he said in a normal voice. "She's like...turned into...you know...that girl, the one who drives her kids around with no seat belt?" kid. "OMG!" he said in a high, girly voice. "That's what my girlfriend says," he said in a normal voice. "She's like...turned into...you know...that girl, the one who drives her kids around with no seat belt?"

Francis c.o.c.ked his head to the side. "Britney Spears?"

"Yeah," said Matt. "Her."

"Dude," Francis said. "That brain thing you have. Are you sure you don't have Alzheimer's?"

Matt noticed then that Francis was also holding a picture. "What's that?" he said.

Francis handed him the photo, a picture of a little girl with the same lopsided smile Francis had, standing on a porch all decorated with red, white, and blue streamers. The house looked like it was in a city somewhere, in a not-very-good part of town.

"My kid," Francis said. He stared at the picture for a while. "I told my wife..." His voice drifted off. "Have everybody come to the side door. The mailman, the neighbors."

Matt had no idea what he was talking about.

"When the army comes to your door, to give you the bad news," he said, "they always use the front door. The chaplain, the guy with the letter from the president, they come to the front door."

Matt nodded.

"So if everybody we know uses the side door, every time the bell rings, she doesn't have to, you know, imagine the worst."

THE BLOND NURSE, THE ONE WHO LOOKED LIKE B BETTY-OR was it Veronica?-had wheeled him to his appointment with Meaghan Finnerty, then left. Matt sat outside the door to her office, studying the things in his notebook. was it Veronica?-had wheeled him to his appointment with Meaghan Finnerty, then left. Matt sat outside the door to her office, studying the things in his notebook.

Kwong had said that Matt might have trouble learning new information. So Matt had written a couple of facts from the World Series trivia book and made a sort of study guide-putting a few of the questions on one side of the page and the answers on the other. Then he folded the page in half, like he used to do when he was studying Spanish vocab, and tested himself.

Which pitcher broke a sixty-two-year-old record when he struck out twenty-nine batters in the 1965 World Series? What year was the series postponed because of an earthquake? Who holds the series record for most home runs?

He covered the answers with his hand and tried to focus. But as soon as he looked away from the book, his mind went blank.

Meaghan Finnerty opened the door. He was surprised at how glad he was to see her. Then his heart sank: She took out her little deck of flash cards.

But he went along with her, concentrating harder than he ever had in school, struggling to identify pictures of random objects-a radio, a b.u.t.terfly, a lamp-then trying to fill in the missing words in sentences about situations from what Meaghan Finnerty called everyday life.

"So, if you want to fill up your car and you only have twenty dollars, can you afford eight gallons of regular and still have money left for a c.o.ke?" she asked.

Matt just looked at her. Everyday life wasn't about filling up a gas tank or ordering a bucket of wings. Everyday life was about getting your gas mask on in ten seconds or calibrating the distance between your position and a sniper's nest.

He tried to concentrate. But all the information-the cost of a gallon of gas, the price of a can of c.o.ke-slipped out of his mind as soon as he took his eyes off the page.

His head had begun to ache and his attention had started to drift, when the cry of the muezzin sounded.

The muezzin's call, broadcast from atop a minaret summoning the faithful to prayer, was a regular feature of the Iraqi soundscape. It occurred five times a day, and Matt had long ago gotten used to the strange noise. But this time it felt like it was ringing in his ears, as if the muezzin were standing right next to him. He could see Meaghan's lips moving, but all he could hear were the long, drawn-out strains of the ancient, mournful call. He wiped his hands across his upper lip. He was sweating.

"Are you all right?" Her words reached him as if they were coming from inside a long tunnel.

"Yeah, sure, I'm fine." The last note of the call to prayer lingered in the air for a moment, then stopped. Matt shook his head, trying to get the sound out of his mind, and waited for his breathing to return to normal.

Meaghan Finnerty seemed to be studying him.

"I'm fine, really," he said.

And they went back to the everyday experience of figuring out which was the better buy: medium popcorn and a soda or an extra large and a free soda.

A SKINNY KID WITH PIMPLES DOTTING HIS FOREHEAD WAS SKINNY KID WITH PIMPLES DOTTING HIS FOREHEAD WAS waiting for him with a wheelchair outside Meaghan Finnerty's office. waiting for him with a wheelchair outside Meaghan Finnerty's office.

This kid was about his age. He had one earbud stuck in his ear and a dab of zit cream on his neck.

"Okay if I walk?" Matt asked.

"Nope." The kid set the brake on the wheelchair with his foot. He was wearing high-tops. Few of the people in the hospital wore combat boots, Matt had noticed. Most of the doctors wore clogs, although one wore socks with sandals, and the nurses all seemed to wear sneakers. It felt more like a mall than an army hospital sometimes. The pimply kid shrugged. "Doctor says you're not allowed."

Matt sighed and lowered himself into the chair, secretly relieved. He was keeping track of how many steps he'd gone since he'd gotten here-so far, sixty-four was the max-and Meaghan Finnerty's office was actually pretty far from the ward.

He wheeled the chair around a corner, then turned up the volume on his iPod. It was so loud, Matt could hear the clatter of the cymbals. "What are you listening to?" he asked after a while.

"It's kinda old-school," he said. "The Clash. Mood music for Iraq."

Without another word, the kid pulled the other earbud out of the pocket of his scrubs and handed it to Matt. And they went down the hall, tethered to each other, listening to "Rock the Casbah."

Matt and Caroline used to share a pair of earphones like that on the bus on the way home from school. They'd sit in the last row and sometimes Matt would just marvel at the look of her knee next to his. Her legs were pale and lean and her skin was impossibly soft, and when she wore a short skirt to school, it drove him crazy. Sometimes, when the squad was riding in the Humvee, he had to fight the urge to take off his helmet and look at the picture of her in her cheerleading uniform, to look at her legs and imagine the two of them together again, sitting in the back of the bus.

When the song ended, he handed the earbud back.

"You don't have anything, like, seriously wrong with you, do you?" the kid asked.

"No," Matt said. "Other than not being able to remember what a raincoat is."

The kid stopped the wheelchair a minute. "Like any internal bleeding or anything?"

Matt shook his head.

"Good. Because I think I can probably pop a wheelie on this thing if we get up enough speed."

THE CHORUS OF "B "BORN IN THE USA" USA" CAME FLOATING OUT CAME FLOATING OUT of the ward as Matt walked in. The soldier with the yo-yo-his name was Clarence, Matt was pretty sure-was fiddling with the dial on a radio that had suddenly appeared on his bedside table. of the ward as Matt walked in. The soldier with the yo-yo-his name was Clarence, Matt was pretty sure-was fiddling with the dial on a radio that had suddenly appeared on his bedside table.

"107.7 FM. Cla.s.sic Rock," he said. "Freedom Radio. Courtesy of the U.S. Army."

After the last few chords of the song died out, an announcer with a Southern accent came on and said there would be a Bible study group meeting on Wednesday and confidential evaluations at the combat stress clinic on Thursday. Life in the Green Zone.

But the strangest thing about the Green Zone was the quiet-or rather, the ordinariness of the sounds. Cell phones trilling. Toilets flushing. The hiss of air as someone pulled the tab on a can of c.o.ke. The sounds were both odd and familiar-out of place, ordinary, and extraordinary at the same time. Matt thought about Itchy, the cat, and how he'd grown accustomed to the pounding of mortar fire and wondered if he would stop noticing these everyday sounds and get used to the quiet.

He opened his notebook to the page with the baseball trivia questions and tested himself again. He was pretty sure Sandy Koufax was the guy who held the strike-out record, but he couldn't remember if the World Series was postponed because an earthquake in 1989 or 1998. He unfolded the page. It was 1989. He repeated that to himself: 1989, 1989, 1989. He tested himself again. But he couldn't remember. Was it '89? Or '98?

A warm breeze filtered in through the open window, carrying the crackle of static, then the lulling voice of an Iraqi sports announcer narrating a soccer match. Soon, Matt felt fatigue descend on him. He closed his eyes and let the notebook slide from his grasp.