Morning hummed to life in the Graves home like a warming turntable. Dawn crept through the blinds and sheer curtains, a soft glow reflecting from Tyson’s eyes, fixed on the records spinning on the nightstand before him. He wanted to take it all in, searching for every mental obstacle possible to distance himself from yesterday. Against the far wall on his desk, he glimpsed the keys of his Model D synthesizer beneath shelves of records, and the near-field speakers that adorned them.

  There was a certain admiration he shared for nature, those first sounds reminding him of his record player: scratching, static, hissing, and popping, then the slow pulse of a bass line filling the narrow room; for a few moments longer, he wanted to just groove. Today, the hissing, scratching, and static were wind rustling branches against the house and the groan of the windowpane shiver. The popping was rain, a sharp snapping on double-pane glass, like cherry bombs in the street. Nature’s bass was thunder, a tone that shook the building to its core.

  Typically, the music was always first. Once his eyes opened, it was the fuel that moved him. There was always just enough energy, drive, willpower, to reach out and place the needle back on the record; but not today. Yesterday clung to him, like a tightly knit sweater; unshakeable, how it twisted his insides. He was conflicted; suffocated by the same apparatus that persevered his life and well-being. Rain’s patter sufficed for the morning symphony, until Tyson was upright, business as usual. Scanning his domain once more, it was time to move.

  Daily routines were regularly performed to a soundtrack in the Graves household that varied depending on a multitude of reasons. What was your mood? Where were you going? Who’s going to be there? Sometimes all of the above, and none. The music echoed from room to room, but it didn’t need to go far to be audible in the bathroom. It danced off the mirror; a portrait of a dark-skinned, tired, frothy-mouthed man in an undershirt and boxers, and rippled through the halls adorned with snapshots through time.

  The sound of the shower muffled the bass, but the harmony cut right through the bathroom fog; infectious melodies consuming Tyson; turning the water off in time for the chorus to ring loud. The walk to his bedroom was a gauntlet of civil rights leaders and familiar accolades. Pictures of his parents shaking hands with Kwame Ture and Huey P. Newton; prolific and historic eyes that watched him track water down the hall and close the door.

  On the dresser, a framed picture of his parents at a Panther rally — their fists raised, their eyes bright with purpose. He couldn’t escape it. There were a few pictures of him in his black sunglasses and leather jacket, scattering the halls too, although he never got the chance to hold one of the weapons. He looked away before their eyes could look back.

  The rain had been steady since dawn. The windowpane shimmered with thin sheets of water, turning the world outside into a liquid blur. Somewhere in the house, the pipes knocked once, the sound hollow like a heartbeat in an empty room. His parents were gone by now. Good, he thought. I can take my time.

  The clothes he wore to the bar last night, after those words were exchanged. “Those will do just fine. No sense being wet and miserable at work all day.” His uniform was stuffed in his backpack with a roll of deodorant and some gum. His wallet caught his eye as he orbited around the finite space.

  He buttoned his jacket, stuffed the small transistor radio into his backpack, and proceeded back through the tunnels of eyes and memories. His lunch was mostly packed from the night before, grabbing some snacks from the counter “…in the bag you go...” He let the record play out.

  In the garage, the smell of motor oil and wet cedar slapped him immediately. Tyson crossed the dark chamber and swung open the door. His bike propped against the wall, chain still damp from the night before. He straddled it, rolled down the driveway, grabbing the door as he passed, letting it fall closed behind him with a heavy metallic boom.

  The street was quiet, slick asphalt glistening under low gray skies. He pedaled toward the park, the radio muttering through static until the station caught again. A woman’s voice rose through the fuzz — something soulful, aching, full of goodbye. He rode slower just to hear her longer. His breaths were deep, his gaze was far, still taking all of it in.

  Oakland had always been two cities to him — the one his parents marched for and the one they warned him about. Storefronts with bars on the windows. Kids in ponchos huddled under the bus stop sign. The faint smell of coffee and damp newsprint. It was home, but it never felt like it belonged to him. Through the park, the redwoods swayed overhead, dripping silver trails into the air. The ground steamed faintly from the clash of warm rain and cool earth. Tyson coasted down the slope, humming with the radio, targeting every puddle.

  By the time he reached downtown, the rain had picked up. He cut through a back alley, bumping over potholes, and came out across from the burger joint — ‘Burger Chef’ in flickering neon. The morning shift was already inside. He chained his bike beneath the awning and shook the water from his sleeves before stepping in.

  The heat and smell hit him: fryer grease, sugar glaze, a hint of burnt toast. Tyson ducked into the bathroom and swapped his clothes, emerging a new man. He tied his apron and clocked in. Marcus, the manager, was leaning over the counter with a cigarette and a clipboard.

  “Morning, Tyson,” Marcus said. “Hope you brought some sunshine in with you. We seem to be running a little low today.”

  Tyson smirked. “Fresh out, boss.” The teens at the counter laughed, and Marcus grinned, shaking his head.

  His daily routine was underway: assembling the ice cream machines before lunch, stocking toppings, checking the mix levels. Behind him, the kitchen clattered with orders. He liked the rhythm of it: the hiss of the grill, clatter of clay trays, the scratch of shoes on tile. Work seemed simpler than thinking.

  From the desserts area, Tyson had an unbroken line of sight with the entire restaurant. From Marcus down at his desk at the far end of the building to everyone that walked in the dining room. There was the exception of a machine or two that would need to be peered through for some angles, but who cared about what was happening in the kitchen? In the early hours of his shift, there was time to people-watch. Most patrons didn’t order ice cream at 9 - 10 a.m. Some, but not many. Once the area was assembled, it was a waiting game. Tyson hated to wait.

  On rainy days, traffic was usually slow. That meant double for frozen treats, but even with less traffic, vigilance was required. So it was not by coincidence that Tyson first caught sight of him, mid-morning, while refilling the whipped cream dispensers. The bell over the door chimed, and, starved for entertainment, he glanced up.

  He was a man in grey sweats and shades, which he’d taken off to study the board, walking in for the first time. At least this was the first time that Tyson had noticed him. Clean-cut, broad shoulders, hair trimmed close. He was a foreigner, not a local, Tyson thought, studying the man’s jet-black hair, delicate jawline, and almond eyes. The man ordered breakfast, a pancake platter with bacon and eggs, sat by the window, and ate slowly, eyes occasionally drifting toward the counter. Towards Tyson, who kept his head down, though he could feel the man’s leer, like a dagger whose prick dug in just barely. Steady, unthreatening, but impossible to ignore. After some time, the man dumped his trash, bid adieu, and vanished into the world.

  Noon’s lunch rush was anything but. It came and went, and with it, the rain softened then thickened again. Paid hourly, who could wish for much better? Droplets on the large windows trailed in such fascinating streams to Tyson, who lost track of time tracing their patterns. He took his break late, sitting near the back with his chicken-salad sandwich and a notepad full of what would amount to scribbles to the untrained eye.

  His thoughts were more cryptic than one might expect. Five lines laid out vertically, black dots linked by beams told tales in harmonies best felt and heard; words expressed through dotted melodies that outright bluntness. Subtext. The world lacked subtext, to Tyson, but who was he to provide it? He remembered the songs from his morning ride, the montage of sound and scenery that scrolled like a marquee with each pedal.

  Beneath his fingertips, Tyson envisioned the keys of his synthesizer. A lush pad of sound filled the corners of his mind, until the door’s bell chimed again. His attention was torn, his face cutting upward sharply. It was him again, the same man from earlier, only this time he was in full uniform. The pair locked eyes, and Tyson knew it was intentional.

  He was a Marine, wearing those olive drab service slacks with that khaki shirt. His chest was full of colorful accommodations.All the seams and creases were perfectly aligned. Each step commanded authority. The shades were subtle earth tones in the luminescent lights, yet his presence was absolute. In a deep gruff voice, he ordered a salad and positioned himself across the dining room, where he picked through half, consuming a quarter more. Neither of their attention was on their food.

  Then he was up, on his feet, in motion with purpose and intensity, and then there, plopped in front of Tyson. Seated. One felled swoop. The man didn’t miss a beat, picking up with conversation as if they were long-lost relatives. “You ever think about what’s next?”

  Tyson blinked. His parents warned him about this, but he didn’t think the likelihood of being approached was high, especially this soon after the war. He played coy. “You mean after my break or my shift?”

  The man smiled. “After all of it.” He removed the lid from his platter and took another bite of his salad.

  Tyson set down his pencil. “Yeah, I’ve thought about it.”

  While his mouth was full of food, the Marine didn’t speak. He reached out, repositioning Tyson’s notebook in front of him, studying it for a spell. He tapped four times before he swallowed and continued. “Ever thought about doing something that matters?”

  Tyson snorted, watching the man take a long gulp from his drink. “Serving ice cream isn’t what you had in mind, I’m assuming?” There was a tinge of awkwardness between them. Maybe it was Tyson’s fault. There was a certain guard that he’d maintained. His entire life he’d been taught about the industrial military complex, and how they preyed on the underprivileged to function.

  “Sure it does,” the man said. “Every man starts somewhere.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “You look like someone who’s tired of ‘starting’, though. I see you. I’ve seen you here before. For a while now. You’re not in high school, right?”

  Tyson studied him. How much more intrusive were the questions going to get? “You’re hunting.”

  “I’m recruiting,” the man laughed the statement off.

  “You’re looking for turkeys, and I’m not one of them.”

  “I’m offering perspective,” his tone was lower now, more direct.

  Tyson laughed softly, matching his energy. “That’s what it’s called, now?”

  “Hey, sometimes it sticks,” the man said, unbothered. “Name’s Staff Sergeant Schmuck.” A hand reached over the table in presentation.

  Tyson raised a brow. “You serious?”

  “I am.”

  Tyson took the Marine’s hand and looked over to the wall for the clock. “Tyson Graves.”

  “Listen, I know you’re at work. So am I. I can be brief. So you enrolled in school now, or…?” Schmuck laced his fingers, elbows firmly on the table, engaged.

  What do I do? Tyson’s mind looked for answers regarding how to get out of this mess and save face. “Well, I’m saving to get back into school.”

  “I figured! You look far too old to be in high school. Damn, that’s the worst, being with all these kids all day, huh?” The Marine’s drink was now more ice than drink, rattling to the table.

  “It’s not that bad—“ His answer was cut short.

  “So what were you going to do when you finished school, before you quit?” There was another bite from the salad, and full focus returned to Tyson.

  The question was hard for Tyson to articulate a response to. Not a lot of people ‘outside’ would understand how deeply rooted Tyson’s life was to the ‘cause’. “Well, my father’s the chairman of a certain Black Liberation Party here in the city. He wanted me to finish so that I —“

  “So, wait,” the recruiter snuck a chuckle in, raising his fist above the table. “So you’re one of those ‘anti-establishment’ nut-jobs, huh? A socialist? Black power?”

  “Nut-jobs?” Tyson’s voice inflected. Hiding his offense, he contemplated. Maybe this was what he needed right now. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I am. Nut-job. Born and raised.” He sat back, proud with his fist raised, committed to this new position in the conversation.

  Schmuck finished off his salad with that ever-agreeable head nod, making sure to chew and swallow every bite before opening his mouth. His eyes searched the table for his keys and wallet, grabbing them as he took a deep gulp of the remaining water in his cup. “That’s good. I like that.”

  “What?” Tyson leaned in, confused. “Like what…?”

  “I like to hear when someone stands for something. Anything. Passionately, or at least passionately enough to try and leverage it. That’ll take you far, kid.” Schmuck was on his feet, presenting a business card. “You got 15 minutes after work? We can finish this talk. We can figure out the kind of man you really are?”

  There it was. The hand, his card, the proposition. All of it. More to take in. Tyson watched as the Marine entered his vehicle. The windshield wipers slid on with a slap, and the man was gone.

  Maybe it was the setting of plans that were previously unset. Perhaps it was the uptick in traffic. For whatever reason, time seemed to blur, the hours melting like sweat on Tyson’s skin. The rain was heavy again, hammering the awning in silver sheets. It was the same thing at the end of every shift: each machine needed to be disassembled, its components submerged in cleaning liquid, and placed in the freezer. Counters, nozzles, all flat surfaces wiped down and disinfected. There was the occasional late order, but Marcus was long gone by now, and these individuals were easily waved off.

  Tyson clocked out, slung his backpack over one shoulder, and found Schmuck waiting outside the door, posted up with one foot on the bumper of his car, in the same clean uniform, cap tucked under his arm. He was remarkably dry, given the weather.

  “You look like a man who could use a ride,” the sergeant said.

  Tyson hesitated, looking at his bike. “What about my wheels?”

  “Leave it. Nobody’s going to bother it.” He beckoned Tyson on, and got in the driver’s seat. The engine was already running.

  The car was a dark green Chevy with government plates and Marine Corps stickers on the bumper. The seats were cracked but clean. It had the new car scent. As soon as the doors shut, the world outside dulled to a muffled hum of rain and traffic.

  Schmuck pulled away from the curb, wipers smacking back and forth. Occasionally there was a squeak.

  “Do you and your folks have plans for Christmas?” Schmucks head followed the passing window ornaments of Santa Claus and his reindeer. “It’s —what—next week, right?”

  “No. It’s kinda complicated.” Tyson found it necessary to avoid a Kwanzaa talk.

  “Ever been across the bay?” he asked.

  “Not since I was a kid. I think I have family out there, we used to go when I was young.” There was a brief moment of reminiscence.

  “Then you’ve been missing out. This city’s a trap for men like you.”

  Tyson smirked. “Men like me?”

  “Yeah, ‘men like you.’ Too smart for what they’re doing and too scared to start over.”

  Tyson watched the passing storefronts blur into streaks of neon. “Is that what you tell everyone?”

  “Only the ones who need to hear it.”

  They rolled through downtown, past boarded shops, record stores, and the old Panther offices that were now half-empty shells. The rain softened to a drizzle. Tyson knew the area well. His childhood was spent on these streets. ‘Outreach,’ his parents called it. To him, it was preaching. Yelling at masses that had bigger problems than the various men pushing them around.

  “You still believe in what your parents fought for?” Schmuck asked.

  “Who said they were done fighting? The fight for Black Liberation is never-ending. That’s where they were today, no doubt, and where they’ll be until the day they die.”

  “Yeah, but do you believe in it?”

  Tyson shrugged. “I believe they do what they have to do. Doesn’t mean it will work.”

  Schmuck nodded. Moments passed before he responded. “So maybe it’s your turn to try things your way.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  They crossed Broadway, the lights reflecting off the wet pavement. Schmuck’s tone was even, persuasive but not pushy. Tyson could sense the rehearsed rhythm of a man who’d said these things before, yet something about the sincerity behind it was real.

  “Tell me, son, what do you want out of life? Who do you want to be—who do you want to SEE when you look in the mirror? Do you want to see a product of the world?” Schmuck’s words seemed sincere.

  Tyson’s laughter was low. “Man, I can’t even see past my shift schedule these days. Which is crazy to me, because I used to be ‘busy.’”

  Schmuck didn’t laugh; his expression was cold like his tone now. “Then fix it. You can change your mind until you can’t.”

  Were these the words that he lived by, hanging in the air between them? Tyson wondered if they were meant as a challenge, presented for anyone to take. They pulled into a small lot beneath a sign that read U.S. Marine Corps – Downtown Oakland Recruiting Station, and Schmuck left the car.

  Close in tow, Tyson followed. The rain had ceased for a time, though thunder still rumbled in the distance. They were across the city, on the other side of downtown. Tyson’s bike wouldn’t have taken him this far, not with him as the rider. Their steps were uniformed as they avoided puddles in the parking lot, entering into a dimly lit recessed breezeway whose walls crawled and chittered.

  Keys jingling in hand, straining in the poor lighting, the recruiter offered an explanation, noticing Tyson’s hand over his nose. “Don’t mind the crickets. If you’re wondering about the smell, well, that’s them too. You get too many of them in one place, and this is the result.” The door pushed open with a ding, Schmuck disappearing into the darkness until a flick of illumination provided guidance.

  Inside was the smell of floor polish, coffee, and wet wool. Posters lined the walls — Marines climbing ropes, standing on beaches, shaking hands with presidents. Placards with the slogans like ‘the beatings will continue until morale improves,’ and ‘pain is weakness leaving the body,’ stuck out. Somewhere nearby, a radio played low jazz. Schmuck handed Tyson a towel and gestured to a chair. “Sit. Let’s see what you’re made of.”

  They started with paperwork. On the desk lay a thick packet and a dull pencil, the kind that made you press harder just to be legible. Name, date, and location of birth. Education. Parents’ education. Friends, and the education of their parents. Every job he’d ever held, every address he’d ever slept in. Then came the heavier questions — criminal history, not just his own but the criminology of his orbit: friends, family, anyone who’d brushed against a record. Medical background. Family medical background. Affiliations. Tyson answered them all, each line a slow excavation. It felt half like a job interview, half like a confession — and somewhere in between, like a quiet indictment.

  Next was the pre-ASVAB test — another thick packet of shapes, math, and engineering problems, vocabulary riddles, and word games. Tyson hunched over the desk, the rain pattering softly against the window while he worked. It helped. The rhythm was soothing, though it didn’t do much for the pain in his neck. This was more than a 15-minute chat. Tyson wondered if the right ‘men’ had ever reminded Schmuck of the time.

  When he handed it back, Schmuck scored it with a black pen, whistling. “You did damn good, Graves. Real good. This isn’t the test, but based on this, you could damn near do anything in the Corps. You’d for sure qualify for a technical field, if you wanted it.” Again with that head nod, the back of his hands slapping the test as he spoke.

  “Thanks,” Tyson smiled faintly. “I don’t even know what I want, though.” His hands were in his pockets as he slumped in the chair.

  “That’s fine,” Schmuck said. “Sometimes wanting something different is enough.” The Marine disappeared into the backroom, and reemerged with a long black rod. “OK, time for pull-ups!” Within a few moments, the recruiter found a doorjamb to suspend the rod from and stood, patiently. “Let’s go.”

  On his feet, across the room, then on the bar, Tyson gripped, feeling a tightening across his back that was new. His breathing began to labor.

  “Give me three more, you got it.” Schmuck was impressed. “Very nice. OK, crunches, then we got a brief little run through the rain. Then a couple of stretches. On your back, let’s get it.”

  The rain had let up just long enough for Tyson to finish rounding the corner back to the awning before the heavens opened. It was another downpour. Schmuck watched him catch his breath, hands on his knees. “You’re a natural. I made a little call while you were out. You could ship tonight if you wanted. Spot opened up on the Sacramento shuttle.”

  Tyson looked up. “Tonight?”

  “Yep. You’ll get processed through MEPS in the morning, then there’s a bus to San Diego after that. If you’re serious, that is. And barring nothing comes back… outrageous.”

  He hesitated. His heart thumped, but not from the exercise. His thoughts were on home, his parents probably reading or arguing over politics. That record he’d left spinning, the trash he’d left on the counter…. All of it. “I don’t know about tonight.”

  “Yeah? Some part of you knows about tonight. That’s why you’re still here, right?”

  “I wanted to know if I could or not—“

  “I got news for you, kid. Anybody ‘could,’ it comes down to who actually ‘does’. Anyone ‘can’ do it, it’s not hard to follow some orders. The hard part is taking the chance. What have you got to lose?” There was a clearing of his voice.

  “I just don’t know what I’ll do, it’s happening so fast…” Tyson scratched his head, as doubt sprouted. He tried to regain clarity.

  “What about something with music? I saw your notebook earlier. Most guys I meet are writing lyrics, not scores. If you want to wait a bit, think it over. It could take a few months for a gig like that to open up, though.”

  What did Tyson have to lose? His life? For the past few years, it seemed like it was wasted for causes that needed ‘other’ kinds of solutions than his own. Schmucks’ nod proved to be infections. “No. Tonight. I’m going.”

  “You want to call home? Inform the folks?” Schmuck grinned, walking for the phone.

  Tyson shook his head. “No. They’ll only try to talk me out of it.”

  Schmuck nodded, not unkindly. “I know. You’re right. I was testing you. Then let’s not give them the chance, then.”

  He picked up the phone and dialed. “Yeah, Staff Sergeant Schmuck here. Yeah. I got one for Sacramento. Last minute. He’s ready. Yeah, now. OK, we’re here, at the station.” With that, the deed had been done. Schmuck bundled up the documents, paper clips, and hole-punching, filing, and sorting. More clerical work than one might expect from a professionally trained Killer.

  It was now or never. Tyson cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir—“

  “I’m a Staff Sergeant. Please, don’t call me sir. I work for a living.”

  The joke was missed on Tyson. “Er, sorry, Staff Sergeant. Why, may I ask, did you enlist? It seems odd, to me at least. What with you being—”

  “Why?” The Marine lowered his hands, squaring up with Tyson, his facial expression hardened. Tense. “Being what, exactly?”

  “Well, I look at you, and I remember what the honorable brother Kwame Ture said about our brothers and sisters in Vietnam and Japan. About mercenaries and money, and how we sent the Marines in and it—“

  “Woah, Woah…!” Anger swelled in the Marines’ eyes, which brightened and rounded. “Japanese…? Are you saying I look like one of those slant-eyed freaks?!” Schmucks’ fists were clenched into fists, which Tyson was sure were registered weapons.

  “I— Sir— Sergeant —“ Tyson’s hands, palms flat between them, were a meager defense at best.

  “Oh, so now I’m a ‘Sergeant’? I didn’t earn my rocker?!” Schmuck was advancing now, slowly as Tyson stammered.

  “St-Staff Sergeant, I’m sorry—!” He took a step back and braced.

  Schmuck buckled into laughter. It was deep and heartfelt. “Relax! I’m kidding!” He couldn’t find the air to calm Tyson. “I was joking. Go have a seat, you boot!” At the desk where Tyson took his test was the only available seat for guests. ‘It’s okay. I get it a lot.” Schmuck was behind his desk, with a flask in hand before he finally took a seat.

  “You got me…” Tyson felt taken back, as he tried to regain his bearings. “I don’t know what I thought you were going to do to me…” he attempted a laugh, but it was certainly nervous.

  “You’re not the first person to ask me.” Schmuck sang back into a stare. “My family is ‘Mong’. It’s true, we are from Vietnam.” There was a trailing in Schmucks voice. The hint of a story there wasn’t much time for, before he continued.“But the Marines came in and saved us. The United States ordered mine and a few other families to be pulled out early on in the conflict.”

  “So, you went then? Back to Vietnam as a Marine…? Tyson was the one leaning in now, as if it was a secret he’d longed to hear.

  “Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do, right?” There was another deep drink from the flask. “If not the Marines, then the CSS. They were going to exterminate all of us, you know? So, I’m here to say ‘thanks’.” He tossed Tyson the flask. “Might as well have a sip. It’s a celebration, as far as I’m concerned. Oh, it’s going to be a long night, devil, might as well drink up. Could be your last in a few months.” Schmuck was back on his feet, resuming his paperwork.

  “This is for you, by the way.” With a smack, an accordion folder full of papers slapped to the desk. “This is you, effective immediately. It’s your jacket. MEPS is going to update some things on it, make sure you get it back. Keep it safe, they will want this at the depot. If you make it there.”

  There was a gentle squelch of brakes in the parking lot. The pair stood on the curb, backpack in hand, rain dripping from their collars, as they exchanged parting words. Schmuck offered a final handshake. “You can change your mind until you can’t,” he said again.

  Tyson squeezed his hand, climbed into the van, and watched Staff Sergeant and the city fade through the streaked glass as it pulled away. There was more to take in than he’d been submerged in before. How would his parents feel once they heard the news?

  Lights glossed off the windows until there was only the darkness of the countryside and the low growl of the engine. From the bottom of his bag, Tyson pulled the transistor radio free and slid his headphones on, his mind swirling from a shot of whisky and the series of risky choices he’d made that day.

  #

  At some point throughout the day, the batteries died on the transistor radio. Maybe it was left on after the ride into work, who knew. It was just Tyson and the open road. The shuttle smelled like rain and diesel. From the second row, forehead against the cold glass, he watched the lights of Oakland recede into the mist. His driver didn’t talk, only glancing back through the rearview mirror, adjusting it ever so often. Just one van, one steering wheel, and one dark highway stretching north.

  Thought about asking ‘how long the ride to Sacramento would be’, crept in, but the silence felt safer. City lights gave way to black stretches of wet road, the reflection of highway signs streaking across the windshield, of course, the rhythmic thump of the wiper blades on drying glass. Every so often, the driver’s radio cracked with static — a voice saying something about traffic, weather, or nothing at all.

  It was a good time to lean back and let thoughts wander. His mother’s books stacked on the living room floor, father’s framed poster of Huey Newton in the wicker chair; life and its deeper meanings. Purpose. There was the overbearing attachment to all the things he’d inherited that he didn’t know what to do with. His legacy, what he would be known for when it was all said and done.

  Rain thickened, then slowed, then came again in waves. The world outside was just motion and shadow. By the time the shuttle rolled into Sacramento, it was after midnight. The processing station sat like a bunker under floodlights, squat and windowless. Inside, the air was colder than he expected — metallic, sterile, humming with machinery.

  Arrows guided his feet down the hall to a waiting room that seemed too sterile. A lone soldier, nose tracing the passages of a book, was on his feet, clipboard in hand. Wrangling the corded pen, he cleared his throat, “Name, Age?”

  “Uh, Tyson. Graves, 24.”

  “Branch?”

  “Marine Corps.”

  The soldier’s eyes glanced up, nodding. “Here, you can fill out the rest, start with social, and work your way down. Only the highlighted areas, or I gotta make you do it again. You can have a seat,” a narrow arm pointed across the lobby, “over there.”

  More of the same. From his backpack, he pulled the accordion folder, thumbing through. It was all here. The same bit of information. He scribbled in the data and returned the clipboard.

  “Sleep room’s down the hall,” the corporal said. “Bus leaves for testing at zero six hundred.” His arm pointed down another hall. “Don’t be late.”

  Tyson followed a handful of other recruits down a narrow corridor that smelled of wax and wet carpet. The “sleep room” was just a barracks-style dorm — twenty metal bunks, one flickering light, a television playing static.

  He lay down fully clothed, backpack as a pillow, and stared at the ceiling. Someone snored. Someone else muttered to himself about San Jose. The sound of rain on the roof drowned everything else. He didn’t sleep much.

  Before dawn, they were herded into a line. A sergeant with a shaved head barked orders: “Forms in your left hand. IDs in your right. Move.” His watch scanned for compliancy like a hawk. “Hey! Don’t you know you’re left from your right? Jeez, I swear.” The man spoke a lot with his hands.

  The building woke up like an office, printers buzzing, doors slamming, boots on linoleum. Tyson moved through it all in a daze. Every step seemed more unreal than the last, voices of varying motivations and accents, all following signs that read TESTING / PHYSICALS / RECORDS.

  Up the stairs, down another long corridor, the air grew cold. “In here, I’ll be proctoring your exams this morning,” a friendly voice called to them. The room was nothing more than rows of divided desks, each with a dull No. 2 pencil. “I trust you all know the rules; you’re not children. Keep your eyes on your own exam; take it to down the hall when you’re done.”

  Years. For most of these questions, Tyson hadn’t studied in at least 5 years. Some of it longer than that. And the length? The ASVAB was long — math and engineering, vocabulary, language, and sociology, reasoning, and logic. Despite this, Tyson finished early, excusing himself from the room.

  At the door, the Sergeant met Tyson, collecting his papers. “You done?” He gave a raised elbow.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re a fast one, huh? A real minute-man.”

  “I read quickly.” Tyson was unsure whether to make eye contact or not.

  The Sergeant grunted. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll learn to wait like the rest.”

  The waiting never ended. Everywhere he went, the rooms were full of the same tired faces — pale, nervous, underfed. Boys who looked too soft to make it through boot camp. A scrawny girl with a missing front tooth bragged she was joining the Air Force to “see the world without touching dirt.” Tyson smiled politely, wondering if that line worked on anyone.

  Across from him sat a man in an oversized coat that still smelled like the street. When the Sergeant called his name, the man stood and said, “U.S. Army, sir,” as if reciting a prayer he didn’t understand. Tyson realized he wasn’t much older than himself. They were all here for the same reason — nowhere else to go.

  When lunch came, they were given ham sandwiches in wax paper and small cartons of milk. Tyson ate slowly, staring at the clock. If this was the path to meaning, it already felt like a waiting room for ghosts.

  Then came the physical. They stripped in a long white corridor lined with benches and hooks. The air was freezing. Tyson folded his clothes neatly, every movement deliberate. Around him, a dozen other men fidgeted and joked nervously, trying to make light of the embarrassment.

  An old doctor with rimless glasses and a clipboard walked the line, his breath wheezing with disinterest. He was thin, his face pockmarked, his cheeks shook with cold.

  He started at one end, calling out observations as if inventorying livestock.

  “Flat feet. Overbite. Too thin. Next.” He continued down the line, casting judgment and determining fates like a Caesar in the Colosseum. Had he ever served himself, or was this just a job he found himself in?

  When he reached Tyson, he paused. Looking him up and down.

  “Strong build. Good posture.”

  Then, almost under his breath: “Not what I expected.”

  Tyson met his eyes, his expression neutral. “Expectations disappoint easily, sir.”

  The doctor’s lip twitched. He scribbled something on his clipboard and moved on.

  It wasn’t pain that got to Tyson — it was the condescension. The quiet assumption that he was just another body, another form to file, another box checked off by people who’d never had to prove their worth like this.

  He thought about walking out. About finding a phone, calling his parents, saying he’d made a mistake. But the thought of his father’s silence on the other end — the “ I told you so” buried in his breath — made him stay.

  First came the fingerprinting. A corporal rolled each finger onto a card, pressing just hard enough to smudge the ridges. No small talk. Just a nod when it was done. Then the questions. Not hostile, but thorough. A staff sergeant in khakis asked about old jobs, a cousin with a record, a high school friend who’d been expelled for theft. Tyson answered plainly, watching the sergeant’s pen hover like it was waiting to strike.

  The swearing-in was held in a low-ceilinged room with folding chairs and a flag that looked ironed but faded. Twelve recruits stood shoulder to shoulder — Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines. No speeches. No music. Just a warrant officer reading the oath with clipped authority. Tyson raised his right hand, said the words, and felt something shift. Not pride. Not fear. Just a quiet click, like a door locking behind him.

  By late afternoon, the paperwork was done. Tyson was back in his clothes, sitting on a hard bench outside the final office. The smell of antiseptic clung to his hands.

  A new officer, young, in a clean uniform, with a clipboard, came out and called names. When he got to Tyson, he smiled too wide.

  “Graves, right? Congratulations. You passed clean. You’ll ship to San Diego tonight.”

  Tyson nodded slowly. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. The shuttle leaves at twenty-two hundred. Marines, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The officer checked his watch. “You’ve got three hours to grab dinner and wait. Don’t be late. They won’t hold the bus.”

  By the time he boarded, the sun had set again. The MEPS building glowed behind them like a prison. The air smelled of exhaust and dust. The bus seats were cracked and cold. Tyson sat by the window, his backpack at his feet. A few rows up, the scrawny Air Force girl waved goodbye through the glass at no one. Across the aisle, the homeless man was already asleep.

  At the back, two recruits he hadn’t met yet talked in low voices about boot camp — about the sand, the screaming, the way it “made men out of boys.”

  Tyson turned his face to the window. The reflection that looked back at him wasn’t fear — it was acceptance. He pulled his jacket tighter and closed his eyes. Maybe sleep would find him easier tonight.

  #

  By midnight, the shuttle rolled to the Sacramento Greyhound station, wipers squeaking against the drizzle that never stopped. Tyson followed the others inside, half-awake, half-numb. The ticket agent barely looked at them—just handed out envelopes and pointed. They were cattle now, processed for shipment.

  The Greyhound was packed with uniforms that weren’t uniforms yet, cheap jackets, hand-me-down sneakers, faces lit by passing headlights. Tyson found a seat near the back, pressed against the window. The air smelled of damp wool, fear, and French fries from the last stop. No one talked much. The hum of the tires was hypnotic. Miles turned into hours; hours into silence. Out the window, California slid by in streaks of sodium light and desert black. At some point, the bus crossed from rain to dry air. The temperature changed, but no one noticed.

  When dawn finally bled through the windows, the sign said San Diego. The recruits blinked like they’d just stepped out of a dream. The driver announced the last stop. Tyson grabbed his backpack—still the same one that smelled faintly of fryer grease—and followed the others out into the pale morning.

  The Greyhound station near downtown buzzed with noise and sun. Marines, soldiers, sailors—different uniforms, different futures—clustered in corners waiting for their rides. Tyson and a dozen others in plain clothes were told to sit on the tile floor, cross-legged, backs straight, no talking.

  He sat there for what felt like an hour, the smell of bus exhaust mixing with cheap coffee. A janitor mopped around them without looking down. One boy beside him whispered that this was “the last quiet we’d ever get.” Tyson didn’t answer. Who knew if he was right.

  Then the Marine arrived. He wasn’t loud, wasn’t even angry. Calm, collected, his uniform perfect, voice level as concrete. “Gentlemen, on your feet. Form one line. Eyes forward.”

  The recruits scrambled up, shuffling into a crooked line that somehow straightened under his gaze. He walked past them once, twice, inspecting without expression. Then he nodded toward the door.

  “My bus is outside. I want you on it. Single file. Move with purpose.”

  They filed out into the California heat, eyes squinting. The bus waiting for them was smaller, white, unmarked. Tyson climbed the steps and slid into a seat halfway down, backpack still clutched tight.

  The Marine followed them in, turned, and faced the aisle. His voice filled the cabin—still calm, but colder now. “Listen carefully. From this moment, you are property of the United States Marine Corps. Keep your eyes down and your mouths shut. Heads between your knees until told otherwise. Do you understand?”

  Murmurs of “Yes, sir” filled the space.

  Tyson bent forward. The vinyl smelled of bleach and old sweat. All he could see were shoes—rows and rows of shoes, all pointing the same direction. Boots, sneakers, scuffed leather. Right next to his own white Converse was another identical pair.

  He whispered, “Hey… I like your shoes.”

  There was only a beat, then, quietly from the other seat: “Thanks. I like yours too.” His accent was Hispanic.

  The bus engine growled. The recruits said nothing more. There was only the swaying as the bus took turns and braked. Darkness. Suspense. Waiting. Tyson’s heart thudded in rhythm with the turns.

  After some time, the bus began to slow, its turns were slower, more calculated. Then they stopped. The idling engine couldn’t mask the sound of the door sliding open or the heavy boots that stepped aboard, shifting the weight of the vehicle.

  His voice rattled the windows, sending a shiver down Tyson’s spine. It was deep. Deeper than Schmucks or any one at MEPS. “Eyeballs! All Eyeballs on me!” He gave demands, not requests. Edicts that required fulfillment. “The only thing I want to hear out of your mouth is ‘yes sir,’ ‘no, sir,’ and ‘aye aye sir,’ do you understand me?!”

  The men were confused, answering weakly “yes -“

  The Marine was angry now, noticeably. He growled and snarled. “You candy-assed babies! Open your disgusting mouths. Scream it!”

  The men yelled again, much louder. Tyson caught sight of the spectacle unfolding outside the bus. Chaos. Recruits stood at attention with two, sometimes three Marines in their faces. Men ran in organized pandemonium at the call of the closer drill instructor.

  “Now!”

  Tyson’s attention was drawn back to the matter at hand.

  “Get the hell off my bus and form up on my yellow footprints!”