"Hey there, son," he says. "You need a minute?"
My head screams to run, but my legs are still locked, and Sam's already moving toward the bench.
I follow him to the bench, and we sit. Molly, his dog, settles next to him. He doesn't talk right away.
"Truck door?" he asks.
I nod.
"Loud noise'll do it." He shakes his head. "Got a dog down the street that sets me off every time it barks. Sounds like mortar fire if I'm not paying attention."
I glance at him. He's not looking at me. Just watching the street like we're two guys passing the time.
He's been in my shoes before.
"I was in a bunker," I hear myself say. "IED hit close. CO didn't make it."
Sam nods. "I'm sorry."
That's it. Sam didn't ask questions or offer me pity. It was just those two words, and they meant more than anything else could.
We sit in silence for a minute. Maybe two. My pulse starts to even out. My hands stop shaking.
Sam pats Molly on the head and ruffles her ears. "You know the five-four-three-two-one trick?"
I nod, but Sam keeps talking.
"Grounding technique," he says. "When your brain tries to pull you somewhere else, you bring it back. Name five things you can see. Four, you can hear. Three you can touch. Two you can smell. One you can taste."
I test it in my head. The bench. The hardware store sign. Molly. A truck is driving past. Birds somewhere overhead. The rough wood under my palm.
It's simple. But it works.
"Thank you," I say.
Sam stands and picks up Molly's leash. "A few of the guys and I meet up on Mondays. Seven o'clock over at Ethel's Diner. Coffee, Danishes, bad jokes. No speeches or therapy circle. Just vets, and a few stories."
He pauses. "Started doing this about thirty years agowhen I got back and realized sitting alone wasn't working. A few of us old-timers keep it going. You're welcome anytime."
He tips his cap and walks off before I can respond.
I sit there for another minute, watching Everwood move around me. Nothing has changed besides a few new cars, but that was it. Everwood hasn't changed, but I have.
Then I pick up the grocery bag and head back to the truck.
I wrestled with the Monday group for a few days. The constant triggers every time Falon dropped a bucket in the barn, or the slamming of a screen door on my morning runs, sometimes they were more than I could handle. Falon saw me jump a few times but didn't say anything. They were small, but Falon noticed everything.
There were a few days when I just stayed home and tinkered with things that needed to be done. Fixed the leak in the bathroom sink, oiled the squeaky back door, and scraped a few windows that were painted shut.
By Sunday afternoon, I finally decided to drop by on my way home from my run, just to pick up a coffee and check it out.
Monday morning, I walk into Ethel's Diner around six thirty.
The heavenly aroma of coffee, bacon grease, and something sweet baking in the back drifts past me. The place is full but not packed. Booths line the windows, tables scattered through the middle, a long counter wrapping around the kitchen.
Sam's in the back corner booth, waving me over like he knew I'd show.
There are four other guys already sitting. Various ages, various branches, but they all have the same aged look. They're alive and proud of their service. As they should be.
