Five days before Christmas, Wayne knocked on the shed door while holding a plate of flapjacks slathered in butter and syrup. It was an overcast morning, a welcome reprieve from last night’s storm. Wayne and Jared had turned in early to read and ride out the bluster.

No answer. Wayne knocked again and called out. Nothing. Maybe Jared was in the toilet. Wayne knocked again and opened the door. “Jared? You in there?”

The shed was empty. Jared’s gear was there, neatly stowed. Wayne got a bad feeling. He powered on the lot and shut the door. He went to work, alone. It didn’t feel right.

Lunch. No Jared. Dinner. No Jared. Morning. Still no Jared. Wayne wondered if he should call the police. It occurred to him he didn’t even know Jared’s last name.

Right around noon, Jared walked into the lot and looked exhausted. Chief loped over to him. He went to his knees and gave the dog a hug and talked to him. Wayne walked up. Jared stood and faced him.

“’I’m sorry,” said Jared, “I fucked up. I knew I would.”

“What happened? Wait, it’s none of my business.”

“It is your business because I missed work and hurt the business.”

“I was worried, then I was pissed.”

“You want me to leave?”

“No. Go split some firewood. That might help.”

“Help with what?”

“Running the lot, among other things.”

“Sorry.”

“Get to work.”

Wayne walked away. There was nothing else to say. Jared needed the work, not words. Manual labor, not a laborious lecture.

That night around the fire, Jared recounted the sordid short story of his disappearance: dive bar, Jello shots, snorting crushed pills, flush fever on the video crack lottery, a wild meth cowgirl named Calista, a ride to Winston, hot dogs from a gas station, a RV park in Winston, a ride back to Coos Bay, a ride to Bastendorff Beach near Charleston, and walking ten miles from Bastendorff Beach back to the lot.

Wayne chuckled as Jared narrated without a trace of qualification or embarrassment.

“How was the sex?” said Wayne.

“I don’t know. I can’t really remember much. I think there was a logger, a transvestite in the trailer, and ferrets.”

“What the hell? You went all the way to Winston and you don’t know if you got laid? And there was logger in drag? Sounds like a weird country song in that.”

Wayne started singing, Going to Winston / going to get laid / got to Winston / don’t know if I got laid

They stayed up extra late that night yukking it up about Winston and Wayne had Jared do something he’d never done before: order a pizza and have it delivered. They ate the whole thing and Chief gobbled down a slice, too.

A few days later, after breakfast, Wayne told Jared to write a sign saying the lot was closed until noon.

“What’s going on?” said Jared.

“We’re going to the farm for trees and I need some help lifting the bigger pots,” said Wayne.

It was a bright and frosty morning and the idea of a drive in undiscovered country suited Jared. He wrote up the sign and wired it to the gate. Wayne cruised the Sierra over and Jared hopped in next to Chief. The Supremes’ Merry Christmas was playing softly.

Wayne drove south for a few miles then turned the truck east onto Highway 241. They crossed sloughs and the Coos River. Jared saw cows grazing in the diked pastureland. A few drift boats plied the river with old men fishing for salmon while nipping Crown Royal from a flask. A few men were outside their houses burning brush piles while drinking beer.

The Coos River gave way to the Millicoma River. Pastureland gave way to conifer and deciduous trees. Light gave way to the canopy of the forest. The road narrowed and began curving here and there.

On and up they drove into the Coos River Watershed. They passed homes and trailers. Some were immaculate, most dilapidated. They passed boats on blocks in overgrown fields. They passed abandoned tractors enveloped by blackberries. They saw deer and horses. They saw listing swing sets and a pool table slumping in a patch of weeds. They passed clearcuts and Christmas decorations hung on wooden fence posts.

The Supremes ended and Wayne told Jared to pick out a new Christmas tape from the glove box. Jared opened it, fished around, and came up with a cassette in a clear case. He took out the tape and read “Merry Christmas 1982 Wayne” on the label in a tiny script.

“What’s this?” said Jared.

“O man,” said Wayne. “is that a weird story. Decades ago, a guy came to the lot the day before Christmas Eve. There was no one around. It was early in the afternoon. He drove up in a sports scar and was with was a beautiful woman. They were dressed in costumes of some kind. Said he was driving to Los Angeles from Seattle and saw the lights on the lot and wanted a tree for his friends. The Temptations’ Christmas album was playing and he said he’d never heard it. He asked me if he and his girlfriend could listen to it around the fire. I said sure. I fed them some stew and we drank a little wine. He didn’t say much, but was really listening to the album.”

Jared handed him the tape.

Wayne examined it as he drove and continued telling the story.

“When the tape ended, he asked his girlfriend to get his guitar and the recorder from the car. She comes back with it. He tunes it up, hits record on this little player, and starts playing some of the songs he just heard by the Temptations. She sang with him sometimes. I couldn’t believe it!”

“What were the songs?” said Jared.

“Hell, I don’t remember! I haven’t played this thing in 25 years. I do remember there were some other songs on there, some weird Christmas ballads, and instrumentals. It wasn’t rock. He gave me the tape and bought a little tree and they were gone. I did get him to sign the register before he left.”

“Let’s check it out.”

“Why not? It’s Christmas!”

Wayne put the tape in the player and a few seconds later, an acoustic guitar started playing slowly, then a male voice sang:

Last night I spent another lonely Christmas
Darling, darling, you should’ve been there
‘Cause all the ones I dream about
You are the one that makes my love shout, you see
You are the only one I care for

“Now I remember said!” said Wayne. “This one is incredibly depressing. It’s about a guy who drinks himself blind every Christmas because the love of his life died on Christmas. Perfect for guys like us.”

Wayne laughed and slapped the steering wheel.

“I want to hear it,” said Jared.

“Okay.”

Jared listened. He thought he recognized the voice. It wasn’t coming to him. Maybe it would later.

Ten, 15 miles. Allegany came and went. The store and gas station were boarded up. A tattered American flag flew above the post office.

Another five, ten miles. Jared saw a sign for Silver and Golden Falls and said something to Wayne about them.

Wayne said, “There’s something about seeing a waterfalls that does a man good.”

Then he laughed. “Jesus, what a cornpone line that is!”

“Is that from a Western?” said Jared.

“I don’t know, but it should be.”

A couple miles from the sign, Wayne slowed the truck down, turned toward the river, and onto a potholed driveway. Fifty yards later the driveway ended at a faded white and blue Victorian farmhouse with a lush meadow behind it.

Wayne killed the engine and he and Chief got out. Wayne didn’t say a word. Jared stayed in the truck for a second, and then stepped outside.

“Let me give you a little tour,” said Wayne, as he walked past the house.

“Aren’t we going in the house?” said Jared.

“I haven’t been inside there in 30-35 years.”

“Why not?”

“Too many bad memories.”

“But you stayed on.”

“I stayed on. My sister didn’t.”

They began walking into the meadow and toward the Millicoma River. Jared took in the outbuildings, elk scat, two-bay pole barn, dog cemetery, greenhouse, alder and maple logs stacked neatly for future firewood, hundreds of potted Doug firs, hundreds of Doug firs growing here and there, and a tiny cabin with a porch standing under a grove of oak trees.

Jared asked about it.

“It’s where I live. I built it when I got back from Vietnam,” said Wayne. “After Dad croaked.”

“It looks nice,” said Jared.

“Chief and I don’t need much room.”

“You get TV out here?”

“No.”

“What do you do in the evenings?”

“I read and watch some movies I get at the thrift stores. Listen to the ball games. Do some puzzles when the rain falls. Feed the chipmunks. Get drunk. The usual stuff.”

They stopped at the river and Jared watched it flow six feet below him. To his left, he saw an old tire swinging from a massive branch of a maple that reached out over the river. He looked down and saw a little pool.

“When’s the last time you used the swing?” said Jared.

“Probably when Jimmy Carter was President,” said Wayne.

Jared noticed a bench off to the right. Near it was a fire pit and a lean-to that protected firewood. He walked over and sat down. Wayne came up.

“I could hang out here forever,” said Jared.

“It’s a good spot to read,” said Wayne.

“Any fish in there?”

“Yeah, steelhead and coho.”

“You ever fish?”

“Not anymore. My favorite thing to watch is when they come up after a big first rain.”

“You mean a freshet?”

“Yeah, that’s what it’s called. How did you know that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You hang out here for a long as you want. I’m going to get things going for the lot.”

“Okay.”

Wayne started walking away when Jared turned from the bench and said, “Wayne, what’s going to happen to this place when you’re gone?”

“It all goes to the local humane society. They have to take care of any dog I have. But they can’t cut any trees. I’ve got 20 acres on either side of me that used to be pasture and I let it go wild. I put that in a land trust.”

Wayne left Jared at the river and went about his errands. Half an hour later, Jared joined him. An hour after that, they were back in the Sierra and headed to the lot. They didn’t say much on the drive. Phil Spector’s A Christmas Gift for You played.

Two weeks passed and Christmas was two weeks away. Wayne, Jared and Chief eased into an efficient and comfortable routine. They ate breakfast together, Jared took an hour off for lunch, and they met at the fire or in the Shasta for dinner and yet another fart stew. Jared never asked Wayne what comprised the ingredients for the various stews but they all tasted deliciously different and they all produced exquisitely different smells of farts.

Business remained steady and every third day, Wayne drove to the farm for more trees and grub. Jared ran the lot in his absence and made sure he meticulously accounted for each sale and handed the cash over to Wayne immediately upon his return.

In the evenings, if rain wasn’t ripping sideways, they sat around the fire and listened to sports broadcasts on the radio and picked up games from all over the West Coast. Wayne loved football but Jared was partial to hockey.

Once they talked about women. Jared asked if Wayne had anyone. Wayne said an old high school girlfriend visited the lot every other Christmas or so, depending if she was married or divorced, but that was about it. Wayne asked Jared if he met any women on the road. Jared said he did and they left it at that.

They talked about cannabis and the unreal proliferation of pot shops around the county. Wayne said he couldn’t believe grass was finally legal. Jared asked what grass was. Wayne defined the term. Jared said he used cannabis every now and then, but the feeling from pills suited him better. Wayne never got into Mary Jane back in the illicit hippie days and said he wasn’t about to start now and listen to a kid with zits sound like a doctor trying to sell him some absurdly-named strain, which was what had happened when Wayne out of curiosity visited the House of Dank in Reedsport.

Another time, they got on the subject of Trump. Wayne despised him for his reference to American soldiers killed in combat as “suckers and losers.” He didn’t know how any veteran could support such a piece of shit who also had dodged the draft. Jared didn’t have much opinion either way. He didn’t see how it affected him. Wayne said, “Decency matters to you, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” was all Jared said.

They never talked about their military service after the initial discussion.

One clear night, a full moon lit up the Steve Prefontaine mural and it arrested Jared’s attention. He asked Wayne about the Coos Bay native and Wayne educated him about the legend and his untimely death at age of 24, the result of driving his sports car drunk into a rock in 1975. Wayne told Jared the Coos Art Museum, just around the corner, had a little Prefontaine museum upstairs. He should check it out at lunch. Jared told Wayne he’d never visited a museum in his life. Wayne told Jared he should also visit the nearby plaque that commemorated the site of the only documented lynching of a Black person in Oregon. It occurred in 1902. His name was Alonzo Tucker and he was accused of raping a white woman. Three hundred Coos Bay residents watched in broad daylight. Jared asked why people would watch a man being killed like that. Wayne said nothing has really changed with Americans and in fact, Americans seemed a lot angrier than they were decades ago.

Wayne asked Jared if he’d texted his mother he was working on a Christmas tree lot in Coos Bay. He said he had not.

They talked about glory days in high school and Chief’s stoic ways. They sampled each other’s preferred alcohol one night and didn’t know how the other man stomached it.

Once Jared swallowed one too many pills and fell asleep in the chair. Wayne rousted him and put him to bed.

A coyote appeared one night. Chief was asleep and didn’t wake up. Wayne and Jared remained still and silent. Seconds later, the coyote disappeared into the maze.

Sometimes Wayne heard Jared’s phone ding in his pocket but Jared never interrupted their dinner, radio or conversations to gaze at the phone.

A couple times, various denizens of Coos Bay’s homeless population asked to use the portable toilet and share the fire for a few minutes. If there was stew left over, Wayne fed them. He told them if they wanted a free Christmas tree to come around Christmas Eve or the next morning. One of the men laughed and said, “I live in the woods! I got Christmas trees all around me.”

One night, nothing competitive was on the radio and Wayne asked Jared if he was a reader. He said not really. In fact, he wasn’t sure if he’d read a book since high school and he’d never finished it. Something about an old guy trying to reel in a big fish.

Wayne told Jared to stick around; he was getting him a book. A minute later he returned with a tattered paperback of Valdez is Coming by Elmore Leonard.

“It’s a Western,” said Wayne. “It moves fast and the good guys always win. This one is great.”

He tossed the novel to Jared who wasn’t expecting it and he fumbled it into the coals at the fire’s edge. Jared bolted from his chair and snatched the book from the fire. Part of the cover was burned and smoking.

Wayne laughed and said, “I told you it was good!”

“Thanks,” said Jared.

“Give it a try.”

Half an hour later inside the shed, Jared hung his flashlight from a nail and angled the beam to his sleeping bag where he rested. He read the novel’s first page, then the second, then the third. There was a Black man accused of murder holed up in a shack surrounded by white vigilantes. Valdez was a lawman who wanted to sort out the facts and counseled patience before a man got judged and lynched. It didn’t work out…and…Jared was riveted.

They drank some more and Jared stoked the fire.

“I was an embassy Marine,” said Wayne.

“Shit. Those guys were bad ass,” said Jared.

“I was in Saigon for exactly 17 days and then we left in a hurry.”

“I don’t get it. Seventeen days? Were you wounded?”

“Kind of. To this day I don’t know what it was that nicked me.”

“So what happened?”

“You don’t know the story of the American embassy in Saigon at the end of the war?”

“No.”

Of course Jared didn’t. That’s why America and their Masters of War keep getting into useless wars that send expendable Americans to shatter, die, and raise the stock market. About the only progressive change is that now America sends women and trans soldiers to shatter and die as well.

“You look up stuff on your phone?” said Wayne.

“Yeah,” said Jared.

“Then look up fall of Saigon.”

Jared whipped out his phone. He hadn’t touched it all day.

A few seconds later he was watching the last helicopter on the embassy roof and Marines loading South Vietnamese civilians into it. It was the last seconds of a unique American folly and ended in deadly farce.

“This is insane,” said Jared.

“I’m up there.”

“Point you out.” Jared held out the phone to Wayne.

“I can’t. I tried once on the computer at the library. A kid had to help me. But I can’t spot myself. We all look alike up there in the panic.”

Jared put the phone away.

“I was the third to last American soldier alive to leave Vietnam,” said Wayne.

“You in touch with any of those guys in the video?” said Jared.

“No. I got home, mustered out, came back here, got disability, made the paper, and never wanted to see anyone connected to Vietnam again.”

“I’m not sure what to say. In my war you would have been a hero.”

“I’m glad I wasn’t and all that ‘Thank you for service’ bullshit I hear around town at car wash and the grocery store.”

“You don’t think it’s genuine?” Jared had heard it ten million times since his return from Iraq.

“If Americans wanted to thank me for my service…then don’t keep going to fucking war and sending back fucked up Americans.”

“I don’t really think about that.”

“Maybe you should. Look what America sent back with you.”

Wayne regretted instantly he’d said such a thing. But he didn’t apologize.

Jared didn’t respond. His answer was to crack open another can of malt liquor. Wayne poured another mug of Carlo Rossi.

“So what about you in Iraq?” said Wayne.

“I’ll give you the short version,” said Jared, “because I’ve told it to doctors and therapists a thousand times.”

“Did that help?”

“No. They prescribed pills and sent me to more therapists and here I am.

“I didn’t see a single therapist and here I am, too.”

They laughed. The fire popped and shot up sparks.

“We were going house to house looking for insurgents,” said Jared. “We had some intelligence. It was wrong. There was an explosion. Friendly fire. My ear drums blew out. I started firing and killed some kids. They gave me a citation of valor and partial disability for hearing loss and I was through. I came home a hero, got a friend from high school pregnant, and then fell apart. Two drunk driving convictions. I tried the VA in Portland.”

“Did you ever go into rehab?”

“Yeah.”

“The last time I walked away and kept going until I hit the coast.”

“Do the pills help?”

“Does the wine?”

“It’s something to do.”

“But at least you’re working the lot and have a farm.”

“Jared, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing besides sitting right here with you and Chief.”

“Well, it seems like a good life.”

Wind rattled the canopy. Rain drops hissed in the fire. Wayne slugged wine and Jared slugged malt liquor.

“Jared,” said Wayne, “why don’t you stick out the season and work for me. God knows I need the help. I’m getting too old to do it all.”

“I’d like to, but I am afraid I’ll fuck up with the pills and alcohol.”

“You’ll fuck up.”

“I’m not violent or anything like that.”

“I know. I’ll pay you $500 for the month and feed you breakfast and dinner. You’re on your own for lunch. When you fuck up, we’ll deal with it.”

“Okay. I hope this isn’t charity.”

“You’re going to work hard and live in a shed. You’re going to eat fart stew every night and sometimes play nice with Coos Bay assholes. That’s not charity.”

They shook hands. It was the first time either one of them had shook hands in a long while. There was still something to it.

Five hours later Jared sat on a round and rested by sipping malt liquor from a sports bottle he’d rustled up from lost and found. He popped another pill and waited for the fuzz. James Brown’s Funky Christmas played.

He’d split and stacked two cords of firewood. He’d cleaned the toilet twice. He’d hauled several trees to cars and trucks and even scored a $10 tip. He’d kept the fire crackling and the train running on time, a veritable Christmas Mussolini! How in the hell did Wayne do it all by himself?

Wayne handled the sales, restocked the trees, nipped wine, and played DJ with the cassettes. He wasn’t exactly Santa Claus with the customers, but moments of levity sometimes occurred and the train set always generated nostalgic conversations with the older crowd who remembered the world before the Internet.

Chief patrolled the maze in his outfit and delighted kids and parents. They Instagrammed the hell out of him and called it Christmas spirit. Hell, maybe it was.

Sweat drenched Jared’s body. He reeked of work, willows and the road. He felt the malt liquor and pill lacquering his edges.

Hunger gripped Jared. He walked up to Wayne and asked if he could take an hour off to get lunch and clean up.

“Sure,” said Wayne. “But where are you going to clean up?”

“I use the fish cleaning station at the boat dock. They’ve got hot water there, too, for shaving.”

“Fish cleaning station! That’s bullshit. Go get lunch and then you can take a quick shower in the Shasta.”

“I can’t impose like that.”

“I say you can. You’re doing a good job today.”

Jared hadn’t heard anyone tell him he’d done a good job since he blew away an Iraqi family who were not insurgents.

“Okay, thanks. I’ll get out of here in the morning.”

“Where you gonna go?”

“I don’t know.”

Jared walked to the Burger King and ate three Whoppers, an order of fries, and inhaled a vanilla shake. He bought a couple cans of malt liquor and some chewing gum at a convenience store. A few minutes later he stepped inside the Shasta with his toiletries, hand towel and a fetid change of clothes.

Wayne had ripped out the original cheap paneling and aluminum interior and replaced everything with cedar, cherry and myrtlewood. The stove, sink, faucet and refrigerator gleamed. Not a single burner was black. There wasn’t a speck of dust or dog hair or cob web anywhere. The bed was made without a wrinkle. Nothing adorned the walls. There was nothing on the counters. Everything was stowed away in closets and cupboards.

Jared felt like he was trespassing into some kind of sanctuary, perhaps a hideout, maybe a womb, or all three rolled into one unnameable safe place. He said aloud, “I wouldn’t mind living here.”

He’d never said that before.

The tree lot conducted brisk business on Black Friday and Jared marveled at how happy everyone seemed. Perhaps it all disappeared once the customers drove away, but half an hour of happiness is better than nothing. As Billy Preston once sang, “Nothin’ from nothin’ means nothin’.”

Wayne locked the front gate at seven and killed the Christmas music. A light rain began to fall and Wayne told Jared to set up the canopy over the fire and bring out the plastic chairs behind the shed. Jared got busy and finished by the time Wayne emerged from the Shasta holding a kettle, ladle, bowls and spoons He rigged the kettle up to rest on a barbecue grill over some coals.

“How’d you like some fart stew for dinner?” said Wayne.

“Sure.” Jared laughed hard. His face felt funny, kind of cracked. He realized he hadn’t laughed that hard in forever.

“What’s in it?” said Jared.

“Fart fixins!” said Wayne.

“Mind if I drink?”

“What do you think fire pits are for? Confessions and getting drunk.”

They both laughed. Jared produced a can of malt liquor and Wayne produced a mug of Carlo Rossi.

As the stew heated, Chief hit the sack near inches from the flames. Firelight danced in his eyeballs.

“Wayne, would you mind telling me about your Vietnam service? I don’t mean to pry.”

“You know I’ve never told it to anyone.”

“What?”

“No one asked in those days. No one cared. They cut you loose and wanted you out. And I didn’t go to bars or the VFW halls and bullshit about it.”

“I’ve never been in one of the halls.”

“Don’t. Most of those guys are total phonies. Talking about armaments and wearing bandannas and unit patches. If you wanted to talk about it in a bar you weren’t there or you were peeling potatoes or typing up reports full of lies.”

They drank in silence for a few minutes. Jared gobbled a pill.

“Let’s eat first, before story time,” said Wayne.

“Fine by me,” said Jared. He hadn’t a home-cooked meal in over a decade and that was in a warming shelter in Astoria. Come to think of it, that wasn’t even home-cooked. It was just served that way by friendly people.

Wayne ladled up the stew and men and dog ate their supper. Chief was farting before he finished his share.

On the morning after Thanksgiving, Wayne stepped out of the Shasta drinking a cup of Folgers and Chief followed him. The dog knew the routine to open up the lot. He had designated duties to perform, such as nudging open the door to the tool shed and pawing on the power strip that powered the lights, train set and cassette player.

Light fog drifted through the maze and through Wayne’s mind. Last night, he’d downed a few too many mugs of Carlo Rossi red while he read a giant novel of the Vietnam War called Matterhorn. Karl Marlantes, a native Oregonian from Seaside, had written it. Wayne had read it before and would probably read it again. He didn’t know why. The plot was totally unlike his experience in the Vietnam War. For one thing, he didn’t die. Another thing: he never fired his weapon. One last thing: he came home a hero in a war without heroes. Actually, Wayne didn’t come home a hero; he came home a loser and the ultimate American symbol of losing, but he did get winged by a flying metal object during his final seconds in Vietnam and the government mustered him out of the Marines and cut him a disability check once a month for the rest of his life.

Wayne was assessing the tree stock when he noticed the lights, music and train set hadn’t come on. He looked over to the shed and saw Chief sitting in front of it. That was odd. It was always left slightly ajar. Wayne walked over to investigate and vowed to lay off the Carlo Rossi for at least one night. Or maybe not. It didn’t really matter, and what the hell, Christmas was right around the corner.

A gust of wind scattered the fog. Wayne walked over to the shed. He opened the door. A clean-shaven, short-haired man slept on the floor inside a sleeping bag on top of a yoga mat. A backpack served as his pillow. The man’s face was weathered in the distinct way of living outdoors by choice or circumstance in 21^st century America does to a man or woman’s face.

At the foot of the bag, resting in meticulous order were: socks, combat boots, toiletries, three 24-ounce empty cans of Steel Reserve malt liquor, two 24-ounce unopened cans of Steel Reserve malt liquor, two power bars, wallet, change, pill bottle, stocking cap, gloves, Leathermen tool, and a smart phone charged into a socket. On the wall hung another backpack, rain poncho and a wool coat.

Wayne recognized instantly this type of order came from a former Marine. It was exactly the way it looked inside the Shasta and his cabin on the farm. It wasn’t merely cleanliness; it was discipline and habit. Perhaps everything else had gone to seed, but some order remained. It was that shred of order that perhaps kept someone alive.

Chief wandered inside the shed and sniffed the man. The man roused. He opened his eyes. Wayne watched them open. He saw something there. They weren’t dead yet.

“I’m sorry sir,” said the man. He hustled out of bag and stood up straight to face Wayne. He was fully clothed in jeans and a sweatshirt. He looked Wayne in the eyes.

He said, “I was just looking to get out of the weather last night and you had a toilet unlocked.”

“It’s fine,” said Wayne. “It’s not a problem.”

“I’m Jared, sir.”

“I’m Wayne, call me Wayne. This is Chief.”

Chief wagged his tail and looked up at Jared. Jared petted his head.

“Give me a few minutes sir, I mean Wayne, and I’ll be shoving off. I didn’t mean to trespass. I figure you’ll have customers coming in.”

“There’s no hurry. It will be a couple hours. You want some coffee?”

“I’d love some.”

“I’ll go get it. By the way, you vaccinated?”

“Yes.”

“Me too. Good. Now we don’t have to talk about the dumb shits who won’t get the shots.”

Wayne and Chief left the shed. Jared started rigging his gear together for the road. Where was he going? He didn’t know. He never really knew. That was one of the few things he liked about his life.

Five minutes later, Wayne handed Jared a cup of Folgers in a blue enamel mug.

“It’s not fancy coffee,” said Wayne.

“It will do fine. Coffee is coffee.”

“You’re a Marine?”

“I was. One tour in Iraq during the war.”

Jared sipped the coffee. “You a Marine?” he said.

“Yes. Right out of high school. Anything to get out of Coos Bay.”

“You drafted?”

“No, the draft was over.”

“Where did you serve?”

“Vietnam.”

“Wow.”

“Where you from?”

“Tillamook. See any combat in Vietnam?”

“No, just chaos.”

“What about you?”

“Fallujah.”

“Was it bad?”

“Yes.”

“So what are you doing these days?”

“I roam 101.”

“That’s it.”

“Well I drink, too, and take some pills.”

“You got a family?”

“My mom’s still alive in Tillamook. She pays for my phone so I can check in.”

“That’s it.”

“I got a son somewhere.”

“Somewhere?”

“It’s a long story.”

Jared took another sip of the coffee. He hadn’t spoken this much in months.

“What about you?” said Jared.

“Just me and Chief.”

“This your lot?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s nice. The train set is incredible.”

“You should see it run. Chief! Power!”

Chief bounded away into the shed. He pawed on the power strip. The locomotive started chugging. The Jackson 5 Christmas Album started playing. The lights started blinking. Jared walked up to the train set. He watched it and didn’t say anything.

Wayne got an idea and said, “Hey, why don’t you get the fire going and I’ll whip you up some breakfast for the road. Some eggs and hash browns. How does that sound?”

“Sounds great.”

Twenty minutes later they sat around a fire on Doug fir rounds eating breakfast and drinking coffee. Jared’s gear was packed up tight and ready to go. They didn’t talk. They were listening to the fire. It spoke better than most people anyway.

A semi great notion hit Wayne.

“Jared, Black Friday is a damn zoo around here. Why not stick around and help, sleep in the shed tonight, and I’ll pay you fifty bucks.”

“What would I do?”

“Keep the fire going. Split wood. Change out the cassettes. Carry trees, clean the toilet every other hour if it’s used. Go to the store if we need anything.”

“Can I drink?”

“Keep it hidden.”

“Okay. Thanks for the offer. I’ll do it.”

And with that, they went to work.

It was Jared’s first day of work since his last functioning day as a Marine when he burst into the home of a suspected insurgent, something exploded, his eardrums ruptured, smoke enveloped the room, he heard screams, and squeezed the trigger on his rifle and didn’t stop until the magazine ran out. Then he passed out.

When Jared regained consciousness, he was resting against a concrete wall and being treated by a medic. He couldn’t hear anything. He saw the house he’d entered and shot up. He rose to his feet. Hands tried to hold him down. He shook free and ran toward the house. He bolted inside. Everything was shattered and burned. There were bodies on the floor. He rolled one over. It was a kid, a girl. Half her face was gone. Jared felt hands on him. He was being pulled away. He was screaming but it was all silence.

Now, 17 years later, he was going to start working on a Christmas tree lot and his ears were still ringing.

Wayne broke his spell by suggesting he start by splitting wood. Jared walked over to a fence where about a hundred Doug fir rounds were stacked. He took out a pill from his pocket and swallowed it. He found a splitting maul leaning against the fence. He gripped the maul. He’d split a lot of wood growing up in Tillamook.

Jared rolled a round into place. He inspected it. You have to locate the sweet spot, the groove, before you strike. Every round has one. You hit that spot and you’ll split the round clean through with one swing.

He brought the maul down. He missed the sweet spot. The maul stuck in the round. Jared put his boot on the round and wrested the maul free. He swung again. Another miss. It would take practice, a lot of practice.