PERSONAL LOG

I’ve done it. My son, distilled into a pure form. A white wolf. Symbolism, I suppose. My grandfather believed in that sort of thing. He was one of the leading American soldiers during the Korean War, before they hanged him and let him fall like a circus acrobat. He commanded a unit called "The Wolves." By all accounts, they did good work.

Lately, though, I’m convinced someone is watching me. Or maybe I’m just unraveling. Either way, the dread follows me into public spaces. The pharmacy aisle at the supermarket is the worst. The last time I was there, I felt movement every time I turned my head, like someone slipping just out of view. I caught a glimpse of a face once. There was a blue "V" marked across it. It’s probably nothing. Hallucinations brought on by exhaustion. I’ve been working too hard. The dreams don’t help.

I’m back in Iraq, walking through a valley carved open by the damage they left behind. I move through it like a witness, not a participant. When I wake up, the feeling stays with me. I don’t know how to name it, only that it lingers far longer than it should.