Then he heard gunshots. The staccato pop-pop-pop pop-pop-pop of an AK-47. of an AK-47.

Matt bolted upright, clutching the covers in his fists. The popping grew louder, closer; the shots seemed to be coming from every direction.

He didn't have his gun or his helmet. He didn't have his vest and he wasn't wearing his boots. He was in a hospital bed, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and flip-flops.

For a moment everything went quiet. A single shot rang out, ricocheting off the concrete.

And suddenly Matt was back in the alley. In the distance, he could see a little boy, ducking in and out of a doorway. A candy wrapper fluttered from a coil of razor wire. The quivering radio voice of a woman singing a love song floated through the air. Machine-gun fire erupted. Bits of plaster rained down from overhead. A dog, a mangy stray with a crooked tail, trotted across the street, oblivious to the battle around him. A single shot rang out. The child was lifted into the air, paddling his arms like a swimmer. He looked surprised, then confused, then absolutely terrified as he soared through the turquoise sky, higher and higher, until all Matt could see were the soles of his shoes.

Matt opened his eyes. All he could see was the deep green of the army blanket. He flushed with embarra.s.sment. He had pulled the covers over his head like a baby.

His whole body was shaking violently. He listened for a moment. The ward was hushed, the only sounds were the steady beeping of a medical monitor a few beds away and the distant rush of water from a toilet flushing.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled the blanket away from his eyes. He heard a voice from a few rows away. It was the shop teacher with the bad back. "Dumb hajis," he said. "Shooting off their machine guns just because they won a soccer game."

Matt looked around. He saw the guy with the yo-yo showing a nurse one of his tricks. Francis was scribbling in his notebook, and the two guys at the end of the room were playing cards. No one had even looked in his direction.

Matt wrapped the blanket around his fist, put it to his mouth, and sobbed.

MATT WAS WAITING OUTSIDE M MEAGHAN F FINNERTY'S OFFICE in the hallway when she arrived for work early the next morning. The sun wasn't even up yet, and the hospital was shrouded in the silence that descended on it only rarely, in those predawn hours after the last of the night's casualties were taken care of and the day's new patients had yet to arrive. in the hallway when she arrived for work early the next morning. The sun wasn't even up yet, and the hospital was shrouded in the silence that descended on it only rarely, in those predawn hours after the last of the night's casualties were taken care of and the day's new patients had yet to arrive.

She stiffened, unconsciously bringing her hand to her service revolver as she saw him sitting in the darkened hallway.

"One hundred and three," he said. "There are one hundred and three steps between here and the ward."

She scowled, but she eased her hand away from her holster.

Matt held up the notebook that Francis had given him. "I know for sure," he said. "I wrote it down."

She turned her wrist to check her watch. It wasn't even seven in the morning. He had no business being off the ward, and she could report him if she wanted to.

"Can we do some more of those picture cards today?" he said quickly. "Ma'am?"

"At our appointment," she said. "This afternoon."

Matt stuffed his hands in his pockets and went to leave. He took a step, then turned to face her. "You're, like, the guidance counselor here, right?"

"Not really," she said.

"But if a person has something they need to talk about, they can talk to you?"

"You can talk to Father Brennan," she said.

"It's not a religion thing. It's a memory thing."

Meaghan Finnerty c.o.c.ked her head to the side and studied him. In her gaze, he saw a flicker of sympathy, something he hadn't sensed from her before, and he looked away, out the window, so she couldn't see the tears that had suddenly welled up in his eyes.

It was still sort of dark out; all he could make out in the dim, gauzy light was the silhouette of a palm tree. He counted to ten to try to regain his composure before turning to leave.

"Come in," she said.

"SOMETHING BAD HAPPENED," HE SAID. I IN THE STILLNESS OF the early morning, the tiny room felt deserted, hushed, like a church before Ma.s.s. "Something really bad." the early morning, the tiny room felt deserted, hushed, like a church before Ma.s.s. "Something really bad."

She nodded.

"I keep seeing it in my head. Or parts of it, anyhow." He wiped his hands on his pant legs, not looking up.

"That's not unusual," she said. "A lot of soldiers have flashbacks, disturbing memories, nightmares...."

"It doesn't make sense," he said, his voice cracking. "I keep seeing him."

"Who?"

"This street kid," Matt said, toying with his plastic hospital wristband.

She waited.

"His parents were killed and he lives with his sister. Inside a giant drainage pipe. One of those things we brought over to rebuild the place. Except we never did."

He paused.

"He's a really good artist. And he runs circles around us on the soccer field. He can score a goal from twenty yards out." Matt glanced up at her for a moment. "He's like Itchy, this cat we adopted. Like our mascot."

Meaghan Finnerty furrowed her brow. "I don't understand."

Matt hung his head. "Me neither."

The room was absolutely still. Matt could hear the hands on the wall clock advancing, second by second.

He took a deep breath, then spoke so quietly, he wasn't sure he'd said it out loud. "I think I killed him."

MEAGHAN F FINNERTY DIDN'T BLINK. S SHE JUST LEANED forward in her chair, and a slender beam of light snuck out from underneath the shade behind her. forward in her chair, and a slender beam of light snuck out from underneath the shade behind her.

Matt looked away, at the exit sign above her door, its Arabic and English letters glowing red in the weak morning light.

"He's...I...he's one of those kids who's always hanging around, asking for candy. He's so skinny...." Matt's voice trailed off.

He stopped and gazed out the window for a moment. It was oddly quiet, still, as if the whole city were asleep. He took in the sight of Meaghan Finnerty studying him.

"I was in this alley..." he said finally. "I was crouched behind a car, taking fire. And there was this dog. He trots across the street. In the middle of a f.u.c.king firefight." He paused, then shook his head. "Up at the other end of the alley, I see this kid ducking in and out of a doorway. And..."

The ping ping of the elevator bell drifted in from the hallway. Then came the clatter of metal wheels and the aroma of bacon-an orderly bringing the breakfast cart-and then the deep-timbred laughter of a pair of male voices right outside the door. The loudspeaker crackled and a voice came on reading the day's announcements, including a lecture at 1800 hours on the importance of proper hydration. The hospital was coming, suddenly and loudly, to life. And whatever feeling of intimacy there'd been in the hushed, predawn hallway vanished. of the elevator bell drifted in from the hallway. Then came the clatter of metal wheels and the aroma of bacon-an orderly bringing the breakfast cart-and then the deep-timbred laughter of a pair of male voices right outside the door. The loudspeaker crackled and a voice came on reading the day's announcements, including a lecture at 1800 hours on the importance of proper hydration. The hospital was coming, suddenly and loudly, to life. And whatever feeling of intimacy there'd been in the hushed, predawn hallway vanished.

"After that..." Matt sighed. "I don't really know what happened."

MATT HAD ONLY GONE A FEW DOZEN YARDS FROM M MEAGHAN Finnerty's office when he had to stop and sit down. He saw a chair outside another office and sunk heavily into it. Finnerty's office when he had to stop and sit down. He saw a chair outside another office and sunk heavily into it.

He was exhausted, having been up half the night, replaying the scene from the alley in his head, but he was also wound up, jumpy, the way Francis was after he'd taken a couple capsules of Ripped Fuel.

Meaghan Finnerty had said she'd work on helping Matt remember more about the incident-she called it that, too, just like Kwong had-at their afternoon appointment.

But Matt couldn't wait. He pulled the notebook out of his pocket and looked at the puppies on the front cover, tumbling over one another. He flipped past the page of baseball trivia and turned to a fresh page. "The Incident," he labeled it. He numbered each entry and wrote down what happened just the way Justin had described it.

1. taxi runs the southern checkpoint 2. Justin and I pursue the vehicle 3. we turn down a side road, past the bootleg store 4. we get out of the Humvee to give chase down an alley 5. we take fire 6. we go into a house 7. Justin picks off the shooter from an upstairs window 8. we leave the building, RPG hits wall Matt looked at his careful, precise handwriting. In high school his writing was so sloppy, he could hardly read it himself sometimes. But after his drill sergeant had yelled at him, saying unreadable coordinates on a battlefield could cost lives-Matt had taught himself to print according to SOP. Standard operating procedure.

SOP. It was also standard operating procedure to keep the squad together, to always have the other guys in sight if possible. If not in sight, at least in touch by radio. But McNally and Wolf and the others weren't there during the chase. Justin said they'd gotten separated.

Matt closed his eyes. And saw the dog again. It was weird the way it trotted across the alley, right in the middle of the firefight. Matt couldn't get it out of his mind. But Justin hadn't seen the dog. Which didn't make sense.

Unless Matt had been alone in the alley.

THE CAFETERIA HAD A GREASY, FAST-FOOD SMELL, A HUMID, tropical climate all its own. Matt walked in slowly, edging his way along the wall, watching people swarm by. It was his first attempt to venture into the mess hall since Dr. Kwong had given him permission to leave the ward for meals. tropical climate all its own. Matt walked in slowly, edging his way along the wall, watching people swarm by. It was his first attempt to venture into the mess hall since Dr. Kwong had given him permission to leave the ward for meals.

"Your X-rays came back fine. No skull fracture. No neck or spinal instability," the doctor had said. "Have any vomiting? Any dizziness? Problems with coordination? Any, uh, emotional agitation or any other, uh, problems?"

Matt's right leg was still weak and out of sync with his left, and he still found himself on the verge of tears half the time. "Nope," he said. "I'm all good."

"Well, that's what they like to hear," he'd said.

"Who?" Matt said. "Who likes to hear?"

"CPA."

There were so many initials in the army. IED, MRE, RPG. It took him a minute to remember what CPA was. Central Provisional Authority.

"They like us to get you fellas patched up and back out there as soon as possible," Kwong had said. "A young, healthy kid like you ought to be back with your unit in a couple of days."

There was a slight hint of sarcasm in Kwong's voice, and Matt wondered if Kwong was under pressure to get soldiers back in the field more quickly than he would like. But all Matt really heard was the part about rejoining his unit soon.

"Meanwhile," Kwong had said, "let's see if we can't bulk you up a little."

The sour aroma of overcooked coffee drifted by, and a pair of officers in neatly pressed pants appeared, carrying trays of steaming food. There were a handful of men in uniform, but almost everyone in the room was dressed in scrubs. Matt felt foolish in his T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, almost as naked as if he were in a hospital gown. But he took a deep breath and stepped away from the wall, aware that his right leg was dragging, and he felt himself be pulled into the tide of people heading toward the chow line.

He shuffled through the line mechanically and watched as men in white knit Muslim skullcaps doled out eggs and bacon with stoic, expressionless faces. Then he found himself suddenly back out among the chairs and tables, holding a heaping tray of food. Matt felt his knees begin to give out and he sat down abruptly at the nearest table.

The guy next to him, a burly man with a faux-hawk, poured ketchup onto his grits and talked loudly in Spanish to another soldier across the table. The only words Matt could make out were "Paris Hilton."

He looked down at the grease around his eggs congealing on his plate and pushed his hash browns around with a fork. He pictured Ali going up to take Communion, his brown, bloated belly and the way he gobbled up the Host. He shoved his tray away, then got up and allowed himself to be pulled into the tide of people bringing their plates to the dish room.

ON HIS WAY BACK TO THE WARD HE SAW AN ORDERLY COMING toward him, pushing a gurney. There was no patient on the cart but, rather, something oddly familiar, something large and black, plastic and weirdly lumpy. A body bag. toward him, pushing a gurney. There was no patient on the cart but, rather, something oddly familiar, something large and black, plastic and weirdly lumpy. A body bag.

Matt stopped, stood at attention, his eyes locked onto an imaginary point on the wall as he approached.

He meant to hold his gaze steady, at a respectful distance from the body bag itself, but something about it caught his eye. It was, it seemed, strangely deflated. Instead of the unmistakable outline of a corpse, which was usually visible through the plastic, only one end of the bag seemed full.

Matt thought back to the attack that had killed Sergeant Benson, their first squad leader. His leg had been blown off at the knee, and so it had to be placed in the body bag separately. But still, they'd taken pains to lay his body out in its proper configuration. He'd heard of guys being so badly blown up that all that was left of them were body parts, and he felt his stomach roil at the thought that perhaps that was what was inside the bag as it drew near.

Still, he kept his head erect, his back stiff, his mouth set in a straight line as the gurney got closer. Then, just as it pa.s.sed by, he flinched.

MATT SPOTTED THE PIMPLY-FACED KID RESTOCKING A SUPPLY closet as he came down the hall toward his ward. His name was Pete. Matt had written it in his notebook. It was the only entry on the page "Things I Know." closet as he came down the hall toward his ward. His name was Pete. Matt had written it in his notebook. It was the only entry on the page "Things I Know."

"Dude," Matt said, "can I b.u.m a smoke off you?"

"Only if I can come with you," Pete said. "If anyone asks, you say you were feeling weak and you needed me, you know, to get a wheelchair or a bedpan or something."

"A bedpan?" Matt said.

Pete shrugged. "You want me to say you needed an enema?"

Matt got the joke. Meaghan Finnerty had said he might have trouble with "social cues," but this was the second time he'd understood when someone was trying to be funny. A good sign.

The two of them stepped outside, into an inferno. The sudden heat-as startling as a grenade blast-nearly knocked him back. It was the first time Matt had been outside in...he quickly calculated...three days or so, and already he'd forgotten the way Iraq could cook a man alive.

The two of them sat on a stone wall while Pete pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his scrubs. He lit one for himself, then handed the pack to Matt.

Matt lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, then coughed up a plume of smoke.

"Been a while," he said to Pete when he'd caught his breath. The truth was that he had never been a very good smoker; he could never quite hit the right balance between inhaling too much or too little. But smoking was one of those things he picked up, or at least tried to pick up, when the squad had any downtime.

He'd even bought a carton of Marlboros when they left Kuwait for Baghdad, but he'd lost most of them the first night they got to Sadr City. While Matt was outside waiting in line for the latrine, Wolf and Justin took all his stuff-his bedroll, his night-vision goggles, his DVD player, his stash of beef jerky-and divvied it up among the other guys. When he got back from the latrine, all that was left was his cot.

Matt had been forced to "buy" all his gear back, paying with the cigarettes he'd hidden in his duffel. After that, whenever he wanted to smoke, he had to b.u.m his own cigarettes off the guys. Wolf, who was only a couple years older than Matt, always asked him to show ID.

Pete exhaled, then said out of nowhere, "You think your whole life flashes before your eyes when you die, like they say?"

Matt had thought about this before. He couldn't fathom how eighteen years of Christmas mornings and riding bikes and playing war with Lizzy could flash before your eyes. Was it a sudden flash, he wondered, like a bomb blast-where your whole life explodes in your mind's eye? Or was it like a home movie-with jerky images going by in fast-forward one last time?