Mine didn’t.

There were no distinctions between the days. Just an endless fucking cycle of barely-awake semi-consciousness.

*     *     *

Dad steps out from the back door, his eyes on the parts in my hand. “You been here all night?” he asks, walking toward me.

I squint from the sun when I look up at him. “Yep.”

He nods once and glances at the garage. “I kept her clean for you. Made sure to keep her runnin’ while you were gone. Had to hide the keys from Eric.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Was that you and him yelling last night?”

“Sorry.”

“He got a girl in there?”

“Yeah,” I say, focusing on my half-ass job of cleaning the piston ring in my hand.

After a few seconds of silence, Dad sighs. “Listen, I’m supposed to work today, but I can call in—we can spend the day together.”

“It’s fine,” I say, a yawn taking over my entire body. “I’m probably just gonna sleep anyway.”

“Okay, son. You’ll be here when I get back?”

I shrug, or at least attempt to. “I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

Without another word, he goes back into the house and I sit, my shoulder aching and my mind going places I don’t want it to go.

My eyelids become heavy. So does everything else. I go in the house, grab the blanket from the recliner where I’d left it the night before and ignore the banging and moaning sounds coming from Eric’s room. Then I head back out to the garage, throw the blanket in the back of the truck and make a new temporary bed for myself. I pop another painkiller and I lie down, my eyes focused on the metal beams making up the roof of the garage. The sounds outside are loud, or maybe I’m focusing too much on trying to hear them.

Old habits.

My phone sounds and I reach into the pocket of my discarded pants and retrieve it, swiping my finger across the screen to read the text.

Dave: Fucking sucks here without you, my friend. Take all the time you need. I’ll just cry myself to sleep at night missing your gigantic arms around my frail tiny body. I miss you, big spoon. Seriously though, make the most of it. Get money. Fuck bitches. All that shit.

Dylan: I’m sure you canxfindxsomeonexelse to offer your catina to.

Dylan: Catina.

Dylan: Vagina.

Dave: Dude. Do you even technology?

I drop the phone and lie back down, feeling the effects of the pill as well as no sleep for the past forty-eight hours completely take over. But just as I’m about to pass out, loud music blares, rattling everything inside the garage, including my fucking truck.

I kick the blanket off me, reaching a new level of frustration, and jump down from my truck. My fists ball at my sides as I listen for the source. It’s not in my house so I press down on the button for the garage door, shielding my eyes from the sun when the door lifts high enough for it to get to me. I march, in nothing but my boxer shorts, down the driveway and search up and down the street, looking for the car causing the disruption. I imagine walking up to it, pulling the driver out, and then beating his face in because fuck—I’m beyond tired, beyond exhausted, beyond giving a shit. Time + deployment + getting shot + lack of sleep = not caring + murder. Or at least in my case.

I pace the sidewalk, focused on finding the source of the music. But it’s not a car. It’s a house. My next-door neighbor’s house. The same neighbors who shined their headlights on my house on my return home from my fucking war.

And now I’m back to insanity.

My strides are long, bare feet stomping through the grass of my neighbor’s front yard, my anger rising with every step. I bang on the door, not caring how I look or who I upset.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Nothing.

I knock harder.

Still nothing.

I peer through the window next to the door, feeling it shake from the base against my hands.

I knock again.

Louder.

Stronger.

Whatever the fuck the song is, it sounds like a drowning cat, clawing its way out of a chalkboard bathtub.

Insanity is an asshole.

“Yo,” I shout, along with more banging.

Finally, the door swings open, the volume doubling.

There’s a girl who I kind of recognize. Her feet are bare, just like mine. So are her legs—long and lean and pasty white. Her dark blonde hair’s a complete mess. So is everything about her. She’s wearing an over-sized shirt that goes past her hips and nothing else. She’s holding a bottle in one hand, a cupcake in the other. She’s older than I remember, not that I had a lot of interaction with her before. “Riley?”

She pulls a phone from somewhere inside her shirt and taps it a few times. The music stops. “What?” she snaps, dropping the phone onto the hardwood floors. She takes a sip from the bottle and cocks her hip to the side, her eyes on mine the entire time.

It’s barely nine in the morning and the girl’s drunk off her tits.

And it just makes me pissed. Or pissder. More pissed? What the fuck ever. “Turn the music down. Or off. Preferably.”

She takes one final swallow before pulling the bottle away and holding it to her chest, her eyes unfocused, lids heavy. “Can you go away? Or fuck off. Preferably.” She slams the door in my face.

“What the fuck?” I whisper, banging on the door again.

The music returns, louder than it was, and I’ve fucking had enough. I kick the shit out of her door. And I’ll keep kicking the shit out of it until the music is off and I can finally sleep.