The rhythmic stomping of rubber on asphalt was the only thing keeping Memphis tethered to the suburban morning. The humidity in Tennessee was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and honeysuckle in the air, a far cry from the metallic tang of dust and diesel that lived in the back of his throat.
He pushed his pace, his lungs burning. As his heart rate climbed, the green lawns began to bleach into a blinding, sun-scorched tan.
Boom. His sneaker hit a loose stone.
Suddenly, the stone was a jagged limestone in the Chak Valley. The sound wasn’t a stumble; it was the distinct sound of a snap. Memphis didn’t jump; he just lowered his center of gravity, his hands instinctively reaching for a tool that wasn’t there. His running shorts felt wrong—too light. He should be wearing sixty pounds of gear.
A German shepherd barked from a six-foot privacy fence with a loose board.
Memphis flinched, his mind remapping the sound into the frantic yelp of a working dog. He scanned the “tree line”—a row of decorative maples—looking for the glint of a lens or the flutter of a prayer shawl. The sweat stinging his eyes wasn’t salt water anymore; it was the stench of a three-day patrol, exhausting and gritty.
“Morning, Brother!” a neighbor called out, lifting a garden hose.
Memphis saw the arc of water and froze. For a split second, it wasn’t water; it was the flare of a tracer round, a line of light cutting through the purple dusk of a Paktika evening. He felt a ghostly pressure of his squad leader’s hand on his shoulder, the silent command to shoot, bound, and communicate.
He blinked. The neighbor smiled, watering a bed of petunias with the hose.
Memphis took a deep breath, forcing his boots back into Brooks. The desert heat retreated, replaced by the cool southern breeze. He settled back into the rhythm, his feet finding the cadence of the here and now.
He ran because it was the only way to exhaust the ghosts. If he ran hard enough, he could leave the ghost in the distance, at least until the next mile.
RoseWattleWriting 