Starts with a Match

The Kooper Keg

For the holiday, we get actual potatoes in the mashed potatoes, brown gravy that's been made by powder and water, and a weak attempt at turkey. But it's hot, there're rolls, so I take it.

They wait until I'm fat and moderately happy to come and tap me on the shoulder. They being the private in charge of my bloodletting for the cherry bombs. He gives me a smile that so obviously says, 'sorry buddy' and also 'so glad it's you and not me' at the same time.

I suck on a tooth and look back to my friends. Jim, Eli and Hannah—who snuck in for seconds after already eating with orange—are head-bent in conversation over movies.

Margie's the only one that meets my eye. She's also the only one so far who knows just how much I abhor needles. She gives me a nod in silence and stands up as I do.

Jim looks to me first. "Where y'all goin'?" he grunts around his seventy-fifth roll.

"Gonna go pass out with a carb coma until I'm forced to be alive tomorrow when we leave," replies Margaret, limping toward the tent entrance. Jim nods, then looks to me, and so do Elijah and Medrano.

Margaret reaches for my hand and pulls me to her. "And he's my boo, so obviously he's walking me like the good young man he is."

"You guys just wanna go make out again like last Thanksgiving," snorts Medrano.

"That was one time," I reply, rolling my eyes and trailing after Margie.

I'd rather get teased for my spiked-eggnog escapades last holiday, that lead me to smacking lips with everyone in our little group except Jim—cause he was the one to finally punch me in the face and sober me up—than hear them get upset for me about having to tap the keg again.

I get angry about it enough as it is. But Hannah's fiery, Eli's fierce, and Jim's a tank in miniature size. They all know how put out I am with the mistreatment and shit. And they're more likely to do something about it than I am.

The last thing I need is Mellow threatening to break our gang up again cause we're 'too close' and it's a 'liability'. Never thought having friends was a bad thing until I got here and was told not to.

She veers us left away from the bunk she shares with a couple other soldiers, and we go toward med tent. Private 'sucks to be you' face Dicky is there. He stands to attention at the sight of us and performs a salute.

Only cause Mellow's inside the tent already. Hate that he sometimes feels the need to make an appearance.

"How're you doing, Kooper?" Mellow asks as soon as he's let me go to at ease. He grips the backs of both my shoulders and gives them hard squeezes as I get to the reclining chair—literally a broken regular office chair that doesn't sit up right anymore. High class medical equipment here at red rover. Spent all our budget on weapons.

"Fine, I 'spose," I shrug, shruggin off my jacket. Margaret grabs it and drapes it over her arm, taking up a spot on the ground by my left side. She's just tall enough that her head comes to my hip.

I pretend to use her as an armrest. She goes to lick my forearm in response. Mellow sees us goofing and gives a sharp smile. It's just his face, as I've learned; smile never reaches his eyes, even when he means it. "Did you enjoy dinner?"

"Yes sir," Margaret replies, pulling her knees up, my jacket folded between her legs and her chest. "Thank you, we know it was difficult to get all that."

He gives a nod and paces with his hands in his pockets, and Medic Mindy comes in, tiny bird-like steps leading her up to my right side. Black hair pulled in a low ponytail, thick unibrow always lowered in a concerned scowl. Her glasses make her look like an owl, one hinge wrapped in duct tape.

I've seen her smile once. It was when she was feeding a squirrel.

She never says much. She works the band around my arm in silence, gets the bags ready, the lopsided metal stand that holds her collection of my blood.

I wince at the needles appearance and look to Mellow. He's already halfway out the tent. Never know why he shows up just to leave. Maybe he's scared of needles, too.

"I'm...for what it's worth," he says, pausing. His nails go skrtch-skrtch on the tent fabric by his head before he turns, and cold pink light cuts across his face. If he wasn't such a hard ass who never learned how to use his facial muscles to smile, I'd say he looks handsome.

Right now he looks sad. "I'm sorry it's always gotta be you, Kevin. I'd give my own if I thought it would make a difference."

I raise my head. Give him only one nod, and he leaves without needing a salute.

Mindy's fingers tap my arm, rubber glove cold, and my left hand splays over my thigh just for Margie to grab it. "Deep breath," whispers Medic Mindy, only two words I've ever gotten out of her.

I do as I'm told, then it's sharp and painful and an intrusion I never want, but feel like I gotta accept, for the sake of others. At fifteen percent donated, my left hand ends up in Margie's hair.

She always has such soft hair, like my nephew Alex's when he was a baby, before it got all curly and was still made of soft wisps.

She tells me about the things she got from her nieces and nephews in her last letter. I know most of what she's talking about, she shares the homemade cookies and scones every time. At twenty percent of my blood gone, she says she's nervous to go home in the spring.

"Why?" I ask, leaning my head back to close my eyes. I'm at twenty-two percent. I'm gonna be fucking useless tomorrow, thank God it's a nine hour drive to our next mission.

"Haven't seen my sister in three years," she sighs. "Not since I got that two-day visit when Grandma died." Her hair feels nice in my fingers. I like pushing it behind her ear. She hums and puts her cheek to my thigh. "And Kathy's gonna be ten. Ten, Koop. I just...I missed so much of that. Bron's first football game, didn't get to take pictures and tease him when he flubbed asking his girlfriend to homecoming."

She giggles, and I snicker a little. I get a tap-tap on my right shoulder, and my eyes hardly open to peek at Mindy. She purses her lips and starts working the needle out. "Did I give enough?" I ask.

I'll get a nod or a shake of a head, like always.

If it's a shake of a head, I get an apple, some juice, and I'm back at it.

"You give too much," she says. Margie's head lifts off my leg, and we both stare intently at Mindy.

She sighs and looks to the tent entrance, back to us. "Always. Unfair, Kevin. No reason to keep making you do this when the bombs aren't even getting dropped off where they're supposed to go."

I nearly blurt out 'shit, Mindy, I didn't know you knew that many words', but Margaret's faster. "Where are they going then?" she asks, kneeling and resting her crossed arms over my leg.

Mindy squishes her face, brows dropping, lip scrunching. She's so small in every way, even her glare is teeny, except for how it makes her eyes look like saucers. "I think they're getting stolen."

Her voice lowers even more, and both Margaret and I lean in as Mindy does. "Mellow outside, heard him talking to Whitacre from yellow before you came here. Whitacre said something about green unit being 'late' with drop offs, having inventory discrepancies. Someone's hoarding them."

"For what," I ask. "And who?" Mindy shrugs, and I send a frown to Margaret.

She shoots me a look. Might be unreadable to anyone else; blank brown eyes, relaxed brow, plain mouth. I know it means she's fucking furious.