Arctic Floor

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Gallen switched to whisky when the band started its second set. The drink burned down behind the beer, warming him against the cold seeping through the concrete floor. From his corner of the ballroom he watched soldiers trying to boogie around Tyler Richards, who was moving his wheelchair to a version of ‘Start Me Up’.

‘Still say he gotta get hisself a better lawyer,’ said Bren Dale, pushing himself back with a big cowboy boot on the edge of the table. ‘Shit, Washington always sends a rejection first up. Daddy knew that from back in the Nam.’

Looking around at the streamers and balloons, Gallen shrugged. Brendan Dale had been a first-rate sergeant when they served together in Afghanistan but the booze made him repeat himself. What no one at this shindig wanted to say was that former specialist first-class Tyler Richards had finished his tour and was on leave when he polished off two quarts of rye and drove his ‘68 Impala off a bridge out of Torrington, near the Nebraska state line.

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