1944

You felt pure horror when the love of your life, Mikey, was drafted. You were never religious, but you prayed that they would find something and deny him of service. I guess God isn't real.

When you got the call, on the line in your house on a warm June evening, and heard a stern man on the line you felt ill. Physically ill. You swore you were going to black out. He wasn't dead. Not yet. He had been put on a plane along with a bunch of other patients and information to New York.

Because he got shot. Because he was in critical condition.

Because he was going to die soon, and it was better if his body was in the U.S.

You got in your car and slammed it to the NYC military hospital. You had to go through so many checks when you got there, but it was all a blur. Everyone looked at you with pity. But when you got his room information you practically ran there.

The room was compound with privacy curtains, groans and painful whispers of goodbye behind those curtains. So many bodies are packed in this tiny room. You walk towards the back, see the one marked Mikey Way, and immediately enter.

Staring at the ceiling, still in the dark green and brown of mud and sand pants and boots but shirtless to take care of the shots, in searing pain, was your Mikey. When you went to his side he looked over at you and smiled slightly.

"Hey.. hi... I missed you..."