James arrived at the Washington-Dulles airport still wearing his uniform. Dusty rocks and shrapnel slid to and fro in his duffel bag. His sunburnt, windblown skin still ached despite repeated aloe applications. He held a collage of grieving tears at bay — smiling at his family and their joy.

Months later he woke up naked in the garage. His blood and sweat smeared the floor. Avoidance worked during the day; he was tormented by night.

Repeated sleepwalking incidents grew harder to explain. Thus, he headed to the family physician. New drug on the market: propranolol.

“It should lessen the effects of your PTSD, James.”

“Post traumatic stress…”

“Yes, you have a quite common disorder among your demographic — returning from the war…yes, yes.”

He eyed the prescription pad. Drugs made him uneasy, but the visions had morphed from unsettling to unbearable.

Dr. Canton handed him the script.

“This should be good for a month. Come back then and we’ll chat.”

“Thanks Doc.”

He walked out of the office — heading straight to Walgreens for the drug. His eyes narrowed on the road, hoping to avoid any emotional entanglements. The visions had spread to daytime and threatened total eclipse.

In fact, the pharmacy parking lot had taken an unusual shape. Deep craters had taken the place of parking slots. Limbless nurses in splattered unis hobbled in pairs — carrying stretchers overloaded with syringes. Men in dark fluid stained overalls scurried on all fours behind. They clattered about — occasionally lurching forward to preserve the overflown.

A fast repeat pinging brought him back. Gas dribbled down the side of his Camry. He pulled the nozzle back flinchingly and squinted across the street. The Walgreens was in tact. Shaking his head, he holstered the nozzle, capped his tank, and climbed back in the car. The new blackouts were most frightening.

Crossing the street proved uneventful. Inside, he headed straight for the pharmacist. The crumpled script fit perfectly in her hand. They both smiled.

“It’ll be just a few minutes.” she said, nodding.

He nodded back with forced concentration. He wouldn’t last a minute in the magazine aisle and he knew it. So, he simply stood still. This had quite an unsettling effect on the staff, but it seemed far better than the alternative. His unbending glare tightened onto a sign above: DROP-OFF.

Ten minutes later, he heard his name.

“Mr. Flagler? Mr. Flagler?”

He grabbed the paper sack and peered inside. It was a large bottle of pills. Relief and apprehension set-in. Impulsively, he unscrewed the bottle and downed a tablet. It scratched down his throat; he swallowed hard.

Squinting, he held the bottle up to his eyes. The DO NOT list was lengthy, but he paid no mind. He purchased a coke and went on his way.