Shark put his hands on his hips and looked at his old friend with amusement. “Look at us,” he said. “Just like old times. Hell, I never thought we’d be doin’ this shit again. If Turgett and Zilker and Woofboy and all the rest of them boys were still alive, shit—we’d really give them Junkyard Ghouls hell. Think they’re lookin’ down on us right now, Gritt?”

With his boot on the wall of sandbags surrounding the machine gun turret, Gritt again looked up at the moon wistfully. Instead of a lonesome ball of grey dust, he saw his son’s face.

“Gritt?” said Shark. “You OK?”

“Yeah. Just thinkin’ about . . . well, nothin’. Forget it.”

Shark lowered his voice: “You’re thinkin’ ‘bout Andy, aren’t ya?”

“No point in hidin’ it, I guess.”

“Shit, Gritt. I’m sorry, man. I know them scars ain’t never gonna heal. How long’s it been now, anyway?”

“Ten years today. But don’t you worry ‘bout me. Thinkin’ about Andy keeps me balanced when shit hits the fan. And shit’s gonna hit the fan any minute now.”

What the fuck am I doing with my life