I was sixteen the first time a man called me a faggot. I was twenty-two the first time I let myself believe he might have been right. In between, I wore a uniform, carried a rifle, and did everything I could to prove to the world and myself that I was a good soldier. Because good soldiers don’t cry. Good soldiers don’t flinch. Good soldiers don’t let people see them break.
They never told us that war wouldn’t end when they said it was over. That it would come home with us. That it would sit beside us in empty rooms, curl up in our chests at night, wait in

I never thought I’d pick it up again. Goo khoshtra, I berate myself whenever stale smoke sours my stomach or blurs my vision—shit tastes better. Yet here I stand beneath the mulberry tree outside our house in Bukan, a cigarette smouldering between my fingers. I watch the glowing tip fade, then crush it with a twist of my shoe.
I place my Touchstone book on the shoe rack and glance at my wristwatch. In the corridor