Soon after Travis arrived in Iraq, Cam’s dreams began.

The first bullet was close: he heard the noise of it passing, then the dull thud as it struck in the dirt somewhere behind him. He flinched, squatting low but he was on the road; there was nothing to duck behind. For a moment he froze in place, then his head swivelled back and forth, hoping to see a puff of smoke, a rifle’s muzzle sticking out from … somewhere.

“Stand up, soldier.” His sergeant’s voice was low, and he couldn’t hear any panic or fear. “That’s just some kid fucking with us. Been a bad guy, you’d be a gold star already.”

He did as he was told, resumed his position in the line and kept moving along the road.

In the morning, Cam could still hear the bullet whizzing through the air. Was that how a bullet really sounded as it flew past? All Cam knew was from movies, Private Ryan and the like. He doubted their authenticity, but he didn’t know. Who do you ask such a question of?

And the rest of it: the gruff, fearless sergeant, patroling a road with no barriers from snipers, the ease with which his child could be killed by an invisible enemy. How close to reality was this dream? Was he seeing something close to the truth, or was his imagination brewing a deception from his fears? Cam didn’t know, had no one to ask. Who do I go to, he thought repeatedly through the day, to ask about a dream of a war I only know from tv? He knew there were groups he could join, other parents of soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan, but when he had looked them up online, all he had read was how proud they were of their kids and their spouses. “Honor their service.” A mantra which turned his stomach. He didn’t care about Travis’s service; he cared about his health, his safety.

What happens, he thought, when I dream that the bullet does not whiz past him but hits him? What then? What happens….

Nearly three years earlier, Travis had broken the news: he was leaving college and joining the National Guard. Saddam had just been deposed, Iraq had fallen, and the biggest fear had been of a possible civil war. National Guard troops were not being deployed in any numbers at that time, but the possiblity was still there. Bush had promised a quick war that only needed a small number of troops, but Cam knew he was a liar. Whatever Bush and his cronies promised, Cam believed the truth was in whatever direction was opposite. Soon it became clear that the war was not only not over, it was getting out of hand. More troops were being sent; stop loss was invoked; National Guard troops were being sent in ever increasing numbers.

By the time Travis had finished basic training, it was clear: he would be going to Iraq.

Cam’s baby boy was going to be sent to war.

He had tried to explain to his son the horrible fear that filled his belly, but Travis didn’t want to hear. Cam couldn’t even get Travis to see him; he was always busy, never able to find the time to see his dad. He quit his job and moved with his girlfriend to a small town over two hours away. He never answered his phone, didn’t return calls, didn’t even respond to emails. He unfriended Cam on Facebook.

Radio silence.

And the dreams intensified.

The morning air was cool. Travis enjoyed the feel of it across his face; in less than an hour, it would be hot and then worse. The sun was just slipping above the distant hills; the horizon was a pale tan. In Iraq, everything seemed to be some shade of brown. He ached for the green forests of home.

The Humvees rumbled on. A few locals were on the road, going and doing whatever locals did; Travis didn’t know and didn’t care. Fuck ‘em. Six weeks in country and he already loathed every person in this punk-ass place. Cradle of civilization? Shit. Cesspool of humanity. The civil war was getting grotesque, and of course they were killing Americans whenever possible.

He scanned the landscape off to his left; he could see nothing of interest. Shadows, dust, the morning light on the roofs of the houses. Six weeks, and not a bit of action yet. He kept his eyes moving, looking for anything that might…

Cam spasmed in his sleep.

The noise, and then … the world flipped itself on end … burning in his legs … bright light, then terrible shadow … was he screaming?

Aching, Cam woke. What was that? A dream? A vision? Make-believe war movies in the night?

He switched on the bedside light; the dark held the scene from his dream suspended in an after-flash. The light pushed what he’d seen into the part of his mind that would work on forgetting it. He sat up to avoid falling asleep again, but his mind was so overwhelmed by the dream’s vivid reality that sleep was not possible anyway.

Was that a dream?

He got up, put on his robe, went into the kitchen. He filled the kettle and set it to boil; he went through the motions of preparing coffee as he waited for his mind to stop shrieking. When the kettle boiled, he filled the French press and sat at the little kitchen table where his MacBook was. He sat, waiting until the coffee was ready; after he’d poured himself a cup and taken several sips, he opened the computer and went to Mail.

Travis

i hope & trust you are well. i miss you and worry for your safety daily. it’s hard not knowing what’s really going on. all i know is what i see on tv, some stuff on the web. bits and pieces. and they only show the worst, of course. the battles, the terrible attacks. Humvees blown up, buildings destroyed by mortar or suicide bombers.

if anything happens to you, i wouldn’t know for almost two days. and there’s nothing i can do anyway. all i can do here is wait & hope. unless you decide to write and tell me what’s really going on, all i’ll have is the news & my imagination. i know things are probably difficult for you there — of course they are, the danger you face daily. being away from home in a strange place. all i mean to say is, not knowing is so difficult. if you would please write now and then, let me know you are ok, let me know that my fears are way too much, that would help so much.

love,

dad

He sat back and reread the letter several times. he corrected two misspelled words; changed a comma to period; stared at the word “dad”. Travis was his son, but it had been so long since Cam had felt like a father. Divorce has that affect. Not only had he and Amy separated, he had been divorced from his only child as well. She had seen to that, perhaps not purposefully, but when Brad had gotten his new job and they had moved two hours away from where Cam lived. He might have relocated, but he also had child support to pay, and finding a job anywhere near where his son was had proven impossible. So as Travis went through his teen years and the various struggles a teenage boy goes through, he’d done so without his father. What kind of parent Brad had been, he had not been Travis’s father.

But neither had he. Travis had grown up on his own, been left to guide himself towards adulthood and the decisions lurking there. Cam had tried to keep close to his son, but the harder he reached out, the more Travis withdrew. He worried that Travis might be drinking or using drugs, but Amy insisted nothing was wrong. She was very effective in limiting Cam’s access to his son, but he knew that he had simply been too cowardly to assert himself as he should have. The same fear of confrontation, of having to deal with the issues that had led to their divorce, kept him from taking the steps that would have been necessary to remain close to his son.

And it had so slowly, and with no foreknowledge, of course, that barely a year out of high school, his son would be in Iraq. Not an excuse, Cam knew, but life takes away opportunities, and relationships, so quietly. Five years pass so quickly when lived on a day-to-day basis. All the promises Cam had kept making to himself, and to Travis; things they would do, gifts he would buy, trips they would take. But the money never seemed to be there, or Amy had an objection, or work was too demanding, or something.

Anything.

The MacBook’s screen had gone to sleep. The stove light and orange of a street light created a strange half-darkness. Cam clicked the spacebar to revive the computer. He read the letter one final time. For a moment, he thought about deleting it, but instead clicked the “send” button.

The rest of the coffee was tepid. He poured it into his cup, microwaved it hot, and then went into the bedroom to get dressed for the day. He hoped it would go as quickly as he needed it to go.