Life’s about choices and consequences. One day, you’re going to your dead-end job, daydreaming of sticking your leg into the trash compactor for an insurance payout. The next, you’re on military leave running butt naked through the town farmer’s field, being chased by an overzealous German Shepard with a big bark and an even bigger bite.

  The screen door broke off the top hinge as Rook shoved his way through, his boot catching a jagged plank as he sprinted out of the farmhouse, sending him spilling out into the grassy yard.

  “Argh, dammit!” he yelled.

  “Run, Rook, run!” He heard the sweet, distressed voice of Adaline, the farmer’s daughter, yelling above him from her bedroom window.

  He glanced back at the sweet girl. After so many years, he finally sealed the deal. Thank God for the uniform. Two years his senior, he used to follow her around like a puppy dog, and the moment he showed up on leave to Pineville, she hadn’t left his side. What could he do? He was a sucker for love. Rook scrambled to his feet and went back for his boot. Single boot as it was, the pair cost him two hundred dollars, which was half a week’s pay. He looked at the hanging screen door, its cracked wooden frame gently swaying limply with the breeze.

  “I’m sorry, I’ll pay for that!” He yelled, trying in vain to pull his boot free.

  Come on, come on. Not now. Not now.

  “You’ll pay for more than the door, boy!” Adaline’s father roared from deep within the farmhouse.

  Furious barking came from the kitchen of the house. Pots and pans hit the ground with a hollow thunk while plates broke as they clattered to the floor. Life sometimes is just one big moment of the consequences of your actions.

  “Get him, Tyco!” Old Farmer Jacobson yelled from his front porch.

  What kind of name is Tyco? More like psycho.

  Rook ran through the field of wheat, one hand firmly holding his family jewels and the other furiously swatting away tall grass and wheat crops. My Commander is going to kill me for this one. Hell, if the dog doesn’t kill me first. The missing boot gave him an uneven gait, leaving him hobbling like a crippled drunk.

  “Damn! Damn!” He cried.

  Jagged roots and rocks stuck in his bare sole, leaving painful reminders of his stupidity. The dog seemed to be closing on him, having no issues whatsoever navigating the tall crops. Why did I leave my boot? Too slow, too slow. Tyco was relentless; he felt its hot breath on his ass. Fuck. Fuck. The last thing Rook wanted was a bite in his ass cheek that would last forever, for a one-night stand with the farmer’s daughter. Not good. I gotta get something to get rid of this damned dog.

  An old, red, run-down shed, long since been maintained, beckoned him over, and a sick thought crossed his mind. It’s probably where he keeps the guys he catches with Adaline.

  “It’s gotta be better than running from a dog.”

  The tool shed was no bigger than the one his grandfather kept in the backyard, and most likely served the same purpose before it went into disrepair. His lungs ached with exertion, but running from the Pineville County Sheriff’s deputies as a kid and years of Army PT kept him in decent enough shape. He prayed it would be enough to vault into the chest-high window.

  Hitting the window, he silently cursed. The impact caused him to wheeze like a leaking balloon. Shit, I’m so sorry for this. He pulled himself up, leaving his bare ass out in the open window to moon the farmer. Climbing through the opening, he hit the ground of the shed with a strained grunt. He’s probably not going to forgive me after seeing my taint. His breath hissed out in a mist before him in the cool morning. Rook shuddered while Tyco was outside, losing his mind with unreserved rage, and he looked around the clutter for something to cover his sweat-slick body. With a sigh of relief, he found an oil-stained brown towel on a shelf behind an old gas can.

  “Well, at least he doesn’t know how to climb through the window.” Rook gave a relieved chuckle before slamming the open space shut. Drying himself off, he wrapped it around his waist and sat against the wall.

  “It doesn’t get better than this.” He tried to ease his tension by searching for a weapon. “There’s gotta be a hammer or something,” he said, scanning the interior of the shack, but it was a lost cause.

  Biting his tongue, Rook risked a peek over the window. The wheat farmer Jacobson was twenty feet away, lumbering with a double-barreled shotgun. How fitting, get shot after getting caught with Adaline. He was a troll of a man, big, dumb, and objectively fugly. He looked like his face was on fire, and some good Samaritan had put it out with a wet baseball bat. However, he must have had one smokeshow of a wife, because he had a b-e-a-utiful daughter, and now Rook was able to confirm that she was beautiful both inside and out.

  “You’re gonna fix my field, lover boy!” Jacobson called, pounding on the door.

  Risking a peek, he saw what the farmer was talking about. There was a trail through the flattened crops, which he ran. The old wood split, shaking in its hinges, with each knock. Well, it was fun while it lasted—Corporal Samuel Rook Merrel, killed by a fierce German Shepard, eaten by a farmer, Wrong Turn style. Cue TAPS.

  Somehow, Adaline Jacobson took a liking to him. His silver tongue convinced her he was the brave Soldier returning home, when in fact the majority of his time being brave was drinking the mixed cocktails from barracks parties. His mind flashed with visions of the secret dates. Looking into her eyes at the Pineville makeout point, and pretending to be just friends while hanging out at her dad’s house. He was enjoying his time with the girl, even though he was sure he was only a Monday and Friday appointment to her. He couldn’t blame the old farmer for hating him when he found him in her bed, sound asleep. But Rook couldn’t help it; he was a sucker for love.

  Let’s try a bit of charm.

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  “Mr. Jacobson, I understand how this looks, but it’s not what you think,” he lied. “Adaline was just curious to see what my tattoos looked like. She wanted to surprise you by getting a piece on her back of you two.”

  Rook sighed inwardly at his lie. No way in Hell that works. He saw my clothes strewn about the room. The hungover, fragmented memory of Adaline and him taking a tumble rolled in around in his head, and he smiled.

  “Shut your trap!”

  Rook jumped, startled at the sudden outburst from the farmer. I should’ve known it wouldn’t work. To his stark surprise, Tyco’s barking turned into a whine, and the uncocking of the shotgun confirmed it. Thank you. If I can’t dazzle you with brilliance, I’ll baffle you with bullshit.

  “Come on out,” Jacobson said.

  Rook unlocked the door and stepped out, smiling sheepishly at the old farmer. The ogre rested the shotgun on his shoulder, with a look of barely contained annoyance.

  “Grab your clothes and get lost.” He spat a wad of tobacco beside Tyco.

  Rook gazed around the ruined field. “Sir, the least I can do is help you repair your field. I have some tools.”

  The farmer gave him a lopsided smile and held his hand out to shake Rook’s. I could have gotten away scot-free. Why do I do these things to myself? Keeping true to his word, the next morning, Rook was back. After a few hours, his hands bled as he dug the hoe into the dirt, attempting to till a plot of fresh soil. Silently cursing, he glanced over his shoulder at the farmer, sitting underneath his porch awning. Lazy bastard. Rook thought, however, he didn’t know who he was mad at; it was a mix of everything. He hated himself for not being sneaky enough to leave during the night, and hated the farmer with his wrinkled face and bushy eyebrows. Lastly, he hated his bastard of a father for putting him here in Pineville in the first place.

  “Faster, boy!” Farmer Jacobson yelled between spitting wads of dip off the porch. “We’ve got a long way to go!”

  Rook rubbed at his sore shoulder, tingling ran up and down his muscles with each dig of the metal into the earth. In through the nose, hold it, and out through the mouth. Just as the old crone taught.

  “But how does that help me now, grandpa?” He asked, taking a seat on the cool dirt.

  The sun dipped below the horizon, bringing the cool dusk. He jerked his head to the sound of the wood frame slamming open. He smiled, hoping the sweet face of Adaline would be peeking through her bedroom. To his dismay, Farmer Jacobson was sneering through the kitchen window.

  “Go home, Rook.”

  * * *

  The next few days made Rook feel like a groundhog. He woke up, worked in the field, snuck into Adaline’s room like a fool, then went home to take care of his grandfather. Things were good exactly one week to the day when Rook was once again chased out of the Farmer’s house in his chonies. Again, multiple items broke as Tyco chased him. Again, leaving an expensive piece of clothing behind. This time, his jacket was stuck in the broken screen door. In front of the great white shark of a German Shepherd. Just when I thought we were becoming friends. He glanced over his shoulder as he cut into the forest, past the field.

  After a mile or so of running through the woods, Rook stopped, slumping on a tree to catch his breath. One day, I’m really going to get killed. Rook was pleased to see his home, small as it was, come into view. The old place had a brick base with white panels that covered the four outer walls, which had stained over the years. I really should powerwash this while I’m here. His boots crunched on the dried leaves until they met the gravel driveway. Smiling, he traced his fingers up the chipped railing until he was on the red wraparound porch.

  “Hey, old man, you still alive?” Rook asked his grandfather as he gently rocked back and forth on his recliner.

  A ragged wheeze was the answer. “You little shit, I’m not dead yet. Couldn’t kill me in Nam, you think time’s gonna get me if the Vietcong couldn’t?” His grandfather gave a wheezing laugh that turned into a hacking cough, covered barely by the blue handkerchief he kept.

  How does that sound worse than yesterday? Rook’s eyes teared up. How did you get so sick in the first place? His grandfather fought in Vietnam, built his house, and raised a family with a Filipino woman in an age when they frowned upon such things.

  “You’re back earlier than expected, Sammy.” His grandfather cleared his throat.

  “Yeah, Old Farmer Jacobson, let me off early.”

  His grandfather’s hoarse voice was taking longer to recover. Rook sighed, hating that his hero was getting older, and placed his arm out to assist.

  “Take my arm, you look like my leather wallet I left on the roof over the summer,” Rook said, then winced at the old man’s iron grip on his bicep.

  “Did you get in trouble again?” His grandfather asked with a ragged and wet cough. “I only have one more favor I can call on for the judge. The bastard owes me for saving him from the Vietcong.” He wiped his mouth with the back of a trembling hand.

  “I messed up, yeah,” Rook said with a sigh. “You know, I got in trouble and went to court like four and a half years ago, right?”

  His grandfather grumbled something under his breath, and Rook ignored it. Instead, he distracted himself by staring at the wall of pictures lining the hallway, like a tunnel of memories. He and his grandfather were in a third of them, by themselves, taken long after his parents passed. He paused in the hallway to stare at the photo of his Kuk Sool Won black belt ceremony.

  He glanced at his grandfather. “You almost smiled in this one, remember? I bet the world would’ve ended had that happened.”

  His grandfather sniffed. “You bet your ass, you slick talking bastard.” He gave a long sigh. “We had your grandma then, though.”

  Rook nodded and continued down the hallway until he reached his grandfather’s bedroom. Inside the dimly lit room, bloody tissues littered the floor. He brought the man who raised him to his rocking chair and covered him with a blanket as he sat down.

  Grandpa Jimmy craned his neck to a family picture of his mom, dad, and him. “Ken, you know I think you oughta quit that police officer job.”

  Rook froze in place, sucked in a breath, and blinked away moisture. The name brought nothing but harsh memories and several moments of choking back the bitterness.

  His grandfather grabbed a tissue and then coughed until it turned into a ragged wheeze. “You keep doing work like this, and you’re gonna start bringing it home.” He closed his eyes. “You do work like this, and it’s gonna tax your soul. It always does.” His words trailed off into deep breathing, then slight snoring.

  Rook sucked in a breath. “Grandpa, it’s me, Sammy,” he said softly, patting his grandfather’s hand.

  It’s so cold.

  Defeated, Rook walked down the hall towards his childhood bedroom. The old man kept the room the same as it was when he left for basic training. On the wall were pictures. Among them, his basic training graduation, Air Assault School, and another from Airborne School. The last of him in his military police gear. He walked up to his TV and rubbed a finger across the screen, leaving a trail in the thick coat of dust. It stood next to his PS3, equally dusty. So many memories. Falling back, his twin bed caught him with a creak. Squeaky as always. On the ceiling, taped was the official poster for Legends Triumph Online MMORPG. He closed his eyes and let sleep take him.