Something in me died in that storage room.

The boy who had shipped out believing in his family, who had counted the nights by imagining a loving homecoming, who had sent every dollar home in trust — he did not survive the night.

What was left, sitting on that concrete floor as the gray dawn came up, was only the soldier.

Cold, clear, disciplined, and entirely without illusions about the people upstairs.

And before the sun rose over Ohio, the soldier made a decision.

He was not going to do this with rage.