Terms of Enlistment

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“You should go see your father,” my mom says from the kitchen.

I look up from my book reader and glance at her. She is putting a meal tray into the warming unit, and her back is turned to me, so she can’t see the smirk I’m giving her. I go back to reading about the destruction of the Pequod, which is a much more interesting subject right now.

“Did you hear me, Andrew?”

“I heard you, Mom. I’m just ignoring you.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass. Are you not going to go and say good-bye before shipping out?”

“Why the hell should I? He’ll just be drugged out of his mind, anyway.”

Mom takes the meal tray out of the food warmer, which seems to work as intended for a change. She walks over to the table and puts the tray in front of me, with emphasis.

“Put that thing away for dinner, please.”

I let out a sigh—also with emphasis—and turn off the book reader.

“You’ll be in training for months, Andrew. With the way his cancer is going, you’ll probably never see him again.”

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