Shit. That was the word Rick had woken up to on Saturday morning, drifting half-formed through his mind as he laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling. He slept lightly now, ever since getting into Lake Flannery. He told himself it was just because he was still getting used to the new place, all the differences between New Hampshire and California, where he was from, but the fact remained that three out of five nights, he was waking up suddenly in the middle of the night, some frantic dream just passing from his mind.
And now this woman, Derek's fiancee of all people, wanted him to come around and talk about it? To sit down and just spill his guts, all the tiny little details of just what had happened before he got to leave Iraq? Rick shook his head, pulling himself out of bed. No. She probably didn't want him to tell everything, he couldn't believe that she'd really want to know the whole story. But if Violet said she did, then Rick figured he owed her, and Derek on some level, to at least go over there and start to tell the story.
He drew out his time, showering and dressing, trying to take as long as possible, as if to delay it, but before Rick really knew it, he was walking up to her door, tugging at the collar of the red-striped shirt he wore, his own dogtags jinging underneath. Shit, he thought again, resignedly shaking his head before ringing the doorbell.