Deadlock by Robert Liparulo Page A

memory—all of them seeming random, none of them lasting more than a few seconds. Here he was meeting Ben, his team leader, for the first time. The elation he felt upon breezing through the video game Outis recruiters had asked him to play. Tearing open a Christmas present, then giving his dad a bear hug for scraping together enough to buy a used Xbox 360.
    And right when he started to discern a pattern to his churning thoughts, something like learning how to ride a bicycle without training wheels would present itself. Mint chip ice cream on a sugar cone. The dead boy bleeding at his feet. His dad escorting him for the first time to an Outis dorm room—saying, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
    Mastering the weapon of a video game still in development—and the following week Colonel Bryson handing him that very weapon in real life. Feeling the pressure of a trigger under his finger, the kick of the recoil—how it felt like Hawthorne, his childhood cocker spaniel, scurrying to get out of his arms. The child he’d shot, how—looking like an adult through the visor—he’d crashed against the television. Little-kid cartoons on the screen.
    Each memory felt like a punch: two jabs to his face, one to his gut. Over and over. Even the sweet images—the bicycle, the ice cream—cut him with their innocence. He felt so far removed from them, from their simple joys. And thinking of them now made the harsh memories even harsher.
    He could not stop sobbing. He tried to be quiet, but his tears wanted to scream. His inhalations stuttered with effort. Exhaling, he moaned or cried out, depending on the horror of the memory, the severity of its blow. He was on his side in bed, curled up, hugging himself. His face was wet, as was the pillow under his cheek.
    A noise reached him. He tried to listen but heard only his own wrenching breaths. The noise again: a soft rap on the door.
    He pressed his eyes closed, held his breath. Go away , he thought.
    He heard the latch and looked. Someone had opened the door. A black silhouette appeared against the grayness of the den behind it. Lights-out was some time ago; the only illumination out there was from a dim bulb in the hood over the stove.
    The figure whispered: “Michael?”
    â€œGo away.”
    â€œCan I come in?”
    Michael didn’t say anything. If go away wasn’t answer enough, this person was coming in no matter what.
    The door opened wider, then closed.
    â€œCan I turn on the light?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œTurn on your bedside light, then.”
    Michael didn’t move. After what felt like minutes, the voice came again.
    â€œMichael?”
    Michael sniffed and wiped at his face. He felt for the small reading lamp on the nightstand. He switched it on. Daggers pierced his eyes. His lids refused to open. He held up his hand; he did not want anyone to approach him like this. He sniffed again and pushed a thumb and index finger into his sockets. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he blinked. Behind his eyes, his brain throbbed.
    A figure was standing at the door. Michael blinked away more tears—he remembered his dad called them clouds, after some Elton John song. The figure flickered and became Julian.
    Michael said, “Are you . . . real?”
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    Julian walked to the bed. He set something on it. It was a roll of toilet paper. Michael tried to laugh but just snorted.
    â€œI heard you,” the younger boy said.
    â€œYeah, well . . .” Michael unraveled some of the TP and wiped his nose with it. “Probably everybody did, but I guess they’re tired of razzing me.”
    â€œFunny, huh?” Julian said. “They try to make us think of our teammates as family—even insisting we use our first names on missions, instead of handles. They think the tighter we are, the more we’ll fight to protect each other. But do one stupid thing,