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On the first Sunday home from Iraq, Toby hauls his damaged body up the back hill to the old water tank standing guard over their ranch. Resting in its shade, he sucks in lungfuls of sage-scented air and counts Black Angus scattered across the grassy slopes above the Pacific. The house squats below, shaded by Monterey pines that he and Angelita helped plant years before. Digging into a shirt pocket, he palms two white caplets and downs them with a swig from his canteen.
Smoke curls up from the barbeque pit. A bell rings. His mother hollers, “Toby, come on down.”
“Yeah, Mom. I’ll be right there.”
They’ve come to welcome him back: neighbors, his teachers, former high school buddies with their new wives, guys from the track team, all scattered under the trees. The first keg is history and the second half gone. But after years of living with crowds, Toby savors this solitude. He searches the side of the rusting water tank and finds Toby ♥ Angie, scratched into its dull green paint when they were twelve.More...

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Automatic weapons' fire pinged off the hull of the tank as David pushed its heavy engines toward the breaking point. The large metal monster roared across the open field closing in on the enemy bunker in a race against the unknown. If the troops inside had anti-tank rockets, they were fucked.More...