I Was Standing Alone at Gate B12, Staring Down the Barrel of My Fourth Deployment With Nothing but a Ruck Full of Gear and a Heart Full of Regret, When a Scruffy Little Boy With the Saddest Eyes I’ve Ever Seen Slipped a Faded, Lavender-Scented Handkerchief into My Webbing and Whispered Two Simple Words That Would Become My Anchor, My Shield, and the Only Reason I Didn’t Let the Darkness Take Me When Our Convoy Hit an IED Six Months Later in the Middle of Nowhere.
PART 1: The Departure The rain at O’Hare International Airport always looks like grey static against the glass. It was November, the kind of bone-deep cold that settles into your joints and warns you about the winter coming. But I wasn’t staying for winter. I was heading back to the sandbox. Tour number four. You’d…