My friend has dreams. And one keeps repeating.

He’s on a raid. It’s dark—the middle of the night. His team of Marines blows an explosive-charge through the front door of a compound. He’s with the first group, clearing the structure. Suddenly he’s alone. He enters a room, and there’s a guy with an AK-47 in it. The guy levels his rifle. My friend shoots back, but there’s only a hollow click. He’s out of ammo. He reaches into his vest to do a speed reload. He goes for a magazine, but he pulls out a ham sandwich instead. He reaches into another magazine pouch. Another ham sandwich.

We laugh when he tells me this.

Then he looks over at me and says, “I wake up and I’m fucking scared.”

Neither of us talks for a bit. Then, at the top of a hill, I tell him that I miss the war.

He nods.

“You know, Ack, the melancholy of it all is that we grew up there.”