The war had ended, but Dan’s life had carried on.

He had wallowed in the memories for two years. Then he met a woman, bought a house. Got married, had a kid. The woman died. The kid grew up in a house where the war was packed so tightly into Dan that it could never touch the child. But Dan didn’t realize that the war spilled out of him every single day. In his nightmares, in the dog tags he wears over his chest, in the way he cautions his child against everything they wish to do.

In the uniform and the helmet he still hides in his closet, which you happen to wear downstairs this morning.

Dan isn’t stupid, he knows you want to follow in his footsteps. He is aware of your fascination with the military and with wars. With history and the government and all things bad in the world. He knows these things, and yet the sight of you in a baggy green jacket embroidered with his name, and a green helmet that hangs over your eyes, sends a painful shock of fear through his chest.

He drops a glass in the sink, shattering it. “Take that off right now!” He commands, walking briskly across the kitchen towards you. He rips the helmet off of your head. “What have I told you about getting into my closet?!”