Geoff joined the Army at Estancia High School. He didn’t graduate. In July, after four tours of Iraq, Geoff came back to his friend Jose’s apartment in Costa Mesa and slept for four days. When he awoke, no one seemed to know there was a war on. His friend’s apartment was bare except for a couch and television and a life-sized cardboard cutout of the Rock. They smoked and goofed around, putting great effort and ingenuity into rolling joints that looked like rattlesnakes. Geoff had his PTSD diagnosis so he didn’t need a full-time job. He helped Jose sort the weed into saleable amounts. Jose cooked or brought food home. He kept in touch with his platoon all over the country. They sent each other messages, memes, and funny photos. They observed the birthdays of fallen brothers. Geoff and Jose drank bourbon and beer and talked about high school and met up with old friends at the beach and bars. “It’s all in you, buddy. You can do anything now. Get your GED, man. Be whatever you want to be.” Yes, it felt good to kill terrorists. Geoff and Jose had sat together in eighth grade band and watched the towers come down. The whole school did nothing but watch the news that day. So yes, it felt right to kill terrorists. It was right. He had done a good job. It was July and his bedroom would not cool off. Geoff lay on his bed at night and asked God for something to die for.