The Lieutenant smiles around the cigarette between his lips. He lounges against the trunk of the tree, his legs draped over each side of the branch, hands resting in front of his lap. He looks the exact same as he did when you knew him, and so do you. He’s in full gear, face dirty with the day’s missions. You are both suspended high above the ground in a Vietnamese Banyan tree. You are dead. You are in heaven. The Lieutenant is the second person to greet your soul.

At first, it was a pleasant conversation. You never hated the Lieutenant, and in fact, you admired him. Up until he got his legs blown off and you left him to die out of total fear. He does not hold his death against you — he welcomed the event with open arms. But then he reveals a piece of information that changes your afterlife.

You had been honorably discharged from the war after an injury to your leg that rendered you immobile. A bullet entered your kneecap from the back, fraying your bone, taking years and years of surgery, pain, and medication before the scars healed and the joint operated on less than 20% mobility. It had ruined everything for you.

The Lieutenant had been the one to fire that bullet. You were so convinced you saw a shadow in a burning building; so convinced you could save whatever poor soul that may or may not have even been there. You would have died if he hadn’t put a stop to your manic desperation.

Upon this discovery, you tackled the Lieutenant, the two of you falling unharmed to the ground beneath the tree. You pounded at his face, and he let you, not gaining one scratch or bruise. Finally, he’d had enough. You were angry, and rightfully so, but he had only a limited amount of time to tell you what he needed to tell you.

“At ease, soldier,” he says, grabbing your wrists to still you.