Crashing the Wave

Sam’s arm was blown off by an IED last month so he uses his teeth to open our beers. It’s my second, his fourth. He doesn’t ask if I want another, just reaches into his case and passes one over. He lines up the bottle caps in front of the log we’re leaning against, pushes them down until they’re flush with the sand. “Lisa hasn’t called me yet,” he says. “You were going to talk to her.” Sam and my sister met in their late-teens. I was a gangly bookworm, uncomfortable with my life, my body, my brain. They...

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