Anthony's arms flex outward. It's 5 a.m. The sky releases a violent exhaustion. The CT scanner cackles a warning. Anthony lies on his back. The cackling of the scanner dislodges his dream. Of screams. Ripe. Like plums. There's a pounding in his head.

What is the last thing he remembered? It wasn't firecrackers. Or the outline of bodies dark against a mountainside. Or a Humvee. Or smoke rising from a narrow rutted trail. Or his Commander's last words. This might be dangerous. He said. He remembered going to sleep. Breathless. Counting the days until his departure from Afghanistan to a base in Italy. But plans change. Like presidents. He sat above it all. In the air. From a U.S. Black Hawk he watched. Where was that second chopper? His own chopper quiet. Except for the soft cooing of a sergeant. Don't stop fighting! We're almost home. You're gonna make it. You're gonna make it. And the hiss. Of a rocket. And a thick thudding. Chopper blades slicing air. Broken. He fell from the sky. After that moment he can't remember. But from before that, he remembered movies. "Born on the Fourth of July." "Casualties of War." "Black Hawk Down." And words. This matter is not of trust not bullets but. The last thing he remembered. A mullah's words. That was it.

Anthony's arms flex outward. It's 5 a.m. The sky releases a violent exhaustion. The CT scanner cackles a warning. Anthony lies on his back. The cackling of the scanner dislodges his dream. Of screams. Ripe. Like plums. There's a pounding in his head.

What is the last thing he remembered? It wasn't firecrackers. Or the outline of bodies dark against a mountainside. Or a Humvee. Or smoke rising from a narrow rutted trail. Or his Commander's last words. This might be dangerous. He said. He remembered going to sleep. Breathless. Counting the days until his departure from Afghanistan to a base in Italy. But plans change. Like presidents. He sat above it all. In the air. From a U.S. Black Hawk he watched. Where was that second chopper? His own chopper quiet. Except for the soft cooing of a sergeant. Don't stop fighting! We're almost home. You're gonna make it. You're gonna make it. And the hiss. Of a rocket. And a thick thudding. Chopper blades slicing air. Broken. He fell from the sky. After that moment he can't remember. But from before that, he remembered movies. "Born on the Fourth of July." "Casualties of War." "Black Hawk Down." And words. This matter is not of trust not bullets but. The last thing he remembered. A mullah's words. That was it.

Anthony lies flat on his back. Strapped in. A mechanical hum cuts the stillness. Like a chopper's blade. Time slows. Into degraded motion. Inside the CT scanner radiation bursts. Hits his ears. His eyes. His brain. His body. Absorbs x-rays. The beams follow a spiral path around his mouth. Is the image they create even Anthony at all?

RPG! Anthony pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Inside, the cockpit erupted. A constellation of green and red. Blinking lights. Be advised. I'm hit. Cannot hold position. Say again. Cannot hold position. Can you hear me? In his head he counted the days until his tour would have ended. Then the ground tried to get in. To stuff its mouth with sky. His body. A ripe plum. He shuddered. The crash was just a moment. That came to life. Was someone knocking? The metallic sound of the motion of the airframe interrupted. Was someone trying to get in?

Anthony thinks it's always 3:39 a.m. He wonders if he will ever stop falling out of the sky. The ground is everywhere it is not supposed to be. In his belly button. Underneath his fingernails. Behind his knees. Maybe this time. He won't make it back.

The gentle way his skin gave in. The softness just underneath his uniform. His shoulder straps barely hit the top of his thighs. The force of gravity struck him. Tried to take everything in. He popped open his shoulder strap. Pushed open the side glass of the cockpit. The monitor lights did not flash. The flight deck was no longer whining. He leaned outside. The ground was brushed purple and red like a plum. Soft like goose down. Necessary. Like air.

Are you hurt? His face. A smile. An IV pushed it way into him. Blood dripped from his chest onto the floor. On his back. He wrapped his fingers around her picture. Brought it down on top of him. His legs splayed on the stretcher. He strained his neck upward. Lifted his hips. Upward. Warmth on all sides. But no movement. His stomach muscles pulled tight. But it settled in. Settled into him. Interrupted his motion. Pulled its nails down his chest. Stared into his eyes. Traced a red chalk line around his body. Grabbed his wrists and upturned his heart in his chest. Captain, can you hear me? He opened his mouth. Hold his wrists! Hold his wrists! He was running toward the sound of that voice. Was he getting closer? Or farther away?

Anthony is used to waiting. He floats inside the scanner. In the sky. He thinks about Moville. Of his girlfriend Michelle. In his mind her face is framed by a window pane. The center of a stained-glass flower. She is fragrant. In bloom. Blooming. Before his eyes. She is opening the back door. Anthony? What are you doing out there? I just wanted you to come out here. And see the moon. I start my fifth tour tomorrow. His face is smiling. Michelle is silent. Unbelieving. Just like a scene in a movie. Her lips. Ripe as plums.