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Setting the gun down, he picked up his phone and called a number he’d kept in his wallet for months: a veterans' support line. As the dial tone rang, he looked out the window. The sun was setting, casting long, dark shadows, but for the first time in years, he wasn't afraid of the dark. He was ready to stop fighting the world and start fighting for himself.
He felt like a ghost haunting his own life. When he closed his eyes, he wasn't in his suburban home; he was back in a narrow alley in Fallujah, the air tasting of copper and exhaust. He was "home," but the person who lived in this house before the wars—the man who laughed at bad puns and loved Sunday mornings—was gone. Setting the gun down, he picked up his
The lyrics of a song he’d heard on the radio—something about being on the —looped in his mind like a broken record. He was ready to stop fighting the world
Miller had spent ten years believing in the "good fight." He believed in the clear lines between the heroes and the villains. But after three tours, the lines had blurred into a smear of grey dust. He had seen "righteous" orders lead to tragedies, and he’d seen "enemies" share their last scraps of bread with starving children. He was "home," but the person who lived