The front window shattered and a black, oblong object rolled towards us, making a wild, screeching sound: a stench filled the room like a fine gray fog. "Below!" I said. My reactions were those of someone who had fought but, rusty as I was, I knew we had to get out of there. Nothing good was about to happen. The old man hurried from behind the counter holding what looked like a silk scarf in his hands and advanced towards the object. He motioned for us to get behind him with his head, never taking his eyes off the thing on the floor, which had begun to spin slowly. I think he was still screaming, but my eardrums were numb with pain and I couldn't hear anything. Mia pulled my arm and we slowly moved backwards, still watching the scene. I saw the old man throw his scarf onto the object. I still couldn't feel, but the movement beneath the scarf seemed to speed up, rippling the edges of the fabric, but it was more erratic and disturbing, like a living thing, a malicious kitten trying to find a way out from underneath. .“Go now,” he said, and walked past us to the back of the store. We followed him, Mia and I, into the alley next to the store. Outside he looked at me carefully. “You have brought an evil thing into our lives. Leave now. He won't stop, but...” then he looked back at the shop door and pushed us away. It all began one night in South Vietnam, in the home of the Screaming Eagles, the 101st, just south of the Ashau Valley. I woke up already falling from my bunk onto the plywood floor, moldy with mildew and smelling pungent and bitter as I pressed my face. Dark, booming sounds, near and far, echoed through our camp. The incoming shells, the 122mm rockets, exploding all around had taken me out… into the middle of the paper… and I had cut myself again. "Damnation!" Then I got up to look for Moss. He was lying on his back next to me and listening. Then I rolled onto my side to see what had cut me. It was a piece of silver metal, about the size of an American coin. It had the same strange writing I'd seen on the tombstone. When I returned to the United States after the tour, I brought it with me as a souvenir. It was a good luck charm, I thought, because whatever had put Moss and me in that grave might have saved our lives. The helicopter's ammunition had exploded and scattered debris everywhere. Trying to get my life back together, I had gotten married upon my return. It didn't work. I was too young, too messed up by Vietnam, and had no reason to try to become a husband. A second marriage ended no better and swept away my desire for a stable life. There was a restlessness I couldn't control.