Iraq 2006.

  The scorching sun beat down on the arid landscape. A young soldier sat at a wooden desk reviewing training manuals and updating his cleaning log. His regulation cut was already growing out, dark and coarse. The guys called him Pretty Face: big brown eyes, full lips, and a jaw straight out of a movie.

  Without that jaw, the nickname would’ve been a lot worse.

  Sweat trickled down his temples, the corrugated metal roof of the barracks doing little to keep the desert’s hellish temperatures at bay. He looked up at the ceiling. A thin web hung limp from the rafters, sagging in the killing heat. Mami wouldn’t have accepted that; she would have come rushing with her duster from QVC. For a moment, his mind slipped away, back to the day he left. Mami by the car, clutching a paper bag full of sandwiches. “You be good, mi Chico, okay?”

  She hadn’t hugged him. Just stared like she was trying to memorize his face.

  The sound of boots on gravel approached the door, and he turned around. There was a pause, as if the person on the other side was thinking, “Should I or shouldn’t I?”

  Then, sunlight flooded the room, and for a moment, all he could see was a silhouette blocking the glare, and a heavy duffel bag thudded onto the floor. The sharp tang of sweat, old tobacco, last night’s liquor, and a heavy dose of Old Spice hit his nostrils like a punch.

  The newcomer was a square-built man, bleached blonde, with thick black eyebrows set above bright green eyes. He wore a crimson shirt, and his tanned arms were covered in tattoos — hearts, roses, and sugar skulls. A boom box slung over his shoulder blasted some Spanish pop music. For a second, they just stared at each other. Then the man’s smile broke wide.

  –Hola, guapo! I didn’t expect to find such a sexy güero in this dusty old barracks, did I? I’m your new bunkmate, Alejandro Rodriguez, but call me Sunny!

  The young man’s mouth went dry. Fuego.

  He pulled himself together and rose to shake the outstretched hand, realizing he was a few inches taller than the stocky blonde. Rodriguez’s grip was firm, but gentle. For a moment, neither let go.

  –Um, welcome. I’m PFC Miller. How was the trip?

  –Long and tiring, PFC. Longer than a season of María la del Barrio, Rodriguez winked and placed the boom box beside his bag. –So, this is my new home for the next…uh, how long are we stuck together, ese?

  –Eight months, I think.

  –Cabrón! I was hoping for the entire year! That way I could practice my English a little more! Okay if I take the top floor in this five-star hotel, amigo?

  He climbed up, strong muscles flexing under tight jeans as he moved. Halfway up, he glanced over his shoulder.

  –You like the architecture, PFC? Not bad for an old man, eh?

  Mark’s cheeks suddenly burned. He realized he’d been staring at the man’s ass without even noticing.

  –What? Uh, no, I, uh, I didn’t...I wasn’t...

  Sunny jumped down, grinning from ear to ear.

  –I was just bromeando, guapo! This is my third deployment. You?

  –Uh, six months.

  –Wow. A baby!

  –Hey, I’ve done my share! Can we just be formal, please?

  –Sure PFC Miller. But I hope you don’t snore, or we’re gonna have words, he joked, his accent thick as fajita sauce. –So it’s just the two of us then?

  –Yeah. We were four, but the other guys…it was an ambush.

  –But you made it?

  –Yeah, I was lucky. He looked down on his Army boots. –Um, what’s that music?

  –Soda Stereo. Argentina band. It calms me down, you know?

  –Never heard of them.

  –Eh, you’re in for a treat! This is Signos!

  He turned the volume up, a melodic voice singing about a broken heart or something.

  –Yeah, thanks. Could ya take it down, please?

  –Sorry, PFC Miller. Sunny lowered the volume. –So, single? he asked, eyebrows raised in an exaggerated fashion.

  –Why does it matter? Mark shot back, cheeks reddening once more.

  –Eh, just making conversation. Sorry again, amigo. It’s almost 1800, wanna grab chow?

  –I’m good. Mark busied himself with his paperwork again. –We’re on different schedules.

  –You’re a professor or what, man? Come on PFC Miller, you gotta eat sometime!

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  –I’m good, thanks. Besides, I’m not hungry.

  Sunny opened his duffel and pulled out a change of clothes and a towel.

  –Suit yourself, but I’ll be in the mess at 1900 sharp if you change your mind! Eh, what’s that? He pointed at a metallic, rectangular thing on Mark’s bed.

  –It’s my harmonica.

  –You play?

  –I try.

  –Well, don’t try too hard, or you might wake up with a sock in your mouth!

  Sunny was out the door in a flash, leaving Mark feeling like he’d just been tossed into his mama’s dryer.

  By the time he had finished his documentation, it was dark outside. He grabbed a cap and headed to the chow hall, where a line of soldiers snaked ahead. The smell of overcooked meat and mashed potatoes lingered in the air.

  A scoop of Sloppy Joe landed on his plate, then mushy peas and mixed veggies. He grabbed a carton of milk and spotted an empty table in the corner, away from the worst noise.

  –Oye! Professor Miller!! Someone was waving a napkin like a semaphore flag. –Come here!

  Damn. Of course, he wasn't gonna eat in peace.

  Reluctantly, he took the tray and walked over to Sunny’s table. The blonde man pointed at the empty seat across from him.

  –Don't look so grumpy, amigo. No one dies from eating together!

  Mark took a bite of his Sloppy Joe. It was as bad as it looked.

  –Yeah, well, I don’t wanna make friends only to lose them.

  –We might as well make the most of it now that we’re here, right? Sunny shuffled in another bite, chewing as he spoke.

  –You’re Mexican, no?

  –Half, how did you know?

  –I saw the flag on the wall, Pepe, five de Mayo one.

  –It’s for The Day of the Dead, and my name’s Mark! M-a-r-k.

  –Ah, perdón! I didn’t know M-a-r-k. So which half is which?

  –My mom’s from Mexico City, and my dad’s from Austin.

  –A medio-Mexi vato from Texas makes perfect sense. You look like you can take care of yourself in a pinch, man!

  –I had my fair share of fights.

  –Amen to that, amigo. Amen to that. Sunny made the cross sign. –Well, I was born in Guadalajara. But look at this! He shook his head at the food on his plate. –My mamasito’s enchiladas beat anything you’ve ever tasted, ese.

  –Nah. Tacos are the best.

  –Uh-uh, enchiladas!

  –Tacos.

  –Enchiladas! Enchiladas! Enchiladas! JajajaJA!

  A soldier at the next table slammed his tray down.

  –Jesus Christ, shut up! Some of us are trying to eat here!

  –Si, si, perdón, amigo, Sunny called back, grinning.

  Mark shook his head.

  –You ever breathe between words, Rodriguez?

  –Only when it’s absolutely necessary, Pepe! I try to use 100% of my oxygen for talking, man. Oxygen is for losers, PFC! Don’t look like that! My whole familia is loca, man. Primas, tíos, tías, sobrinos, parientes en tercer grado... my abuela is crazy to boot!

  Mark pushed his half-eaten meal away. He’d thought he would be stuck with a quiet, brooding type. Instead, he got a Chihuahua on meth.

  –Sounds fun.

  –Not kidding, ese. They never leave a man alone, but I love them still. And you?

  –Just my mom.

  –Aha. Just mom? No papa, no siblings? Dog? Cat?

  –No, it’s just us two.

  –Okay. You go to the gym often PFC? Shit, I’m forgetting my food! Sunny stuffed in some more. –You have some mean biceps there, man.

  –Thanks. I go to the gym when it’s empty.

  –No shit, Mister Lone Wolf.

  –Yeah, not everyone is a comedian.

  –I’m just joking with you, amigo. No hay trampa, no trap, uh?

  –Yeah, no problem, Mark muttered.

  –But you know what they say, Mira al caballo por su piel no por el lazo que lo arrastra, ”don’t judge a horse by its halter.” You know, don’t judge a book by its cover. I could use a gym buddy, by the way. You interested?

  –Well, I…well…

  –Excelente! We’ll hit it tomorrow after chow. Oye! He snapped his fingers. –I saw a Taco Bell here! Tomorrow we can eat there, but no Tacos is as good as the ones my abuela makes. Her recipe’s a secret, but I’m working on cracking it. Say, tonight’s movie night in the rec hall. Wanna go?

  –No, I’m studying.

  –Really? What about?

  –The Bible and astronomy, I like looking at the stars.

  –A bible-reading stargazer! That’s cool, amigo! They used to say in my ciudad that when two people look at the same star, they’re connected by a cosmic string. So no movie?

  –Umm, no disrespect, but I’d rather read.

  –Ouch, okay. He popped another forkful into his mouth. –So, Star Gazer, how did a kid like you end up in this place?

  Mark looked at his Sloppy Joe, then back at his bunkmate. Sunny’s eyes were green. Green like the Cozumel reefs in the travel catalogs he used to read as a kid, dreaming about going there one day.

  –I enlisted after high school. Had no plans for college, really.

  –And now?

  –Now, I guess I’m here. Rodriguez, ya have, uh, contact lenses?

  Sunny laughed.

  –No, chico, these are real. I was born with them. My abuela used to say they were a gift from La Virgen de Guadalupe: ‘Para recordar que hay belleza en este mundo feo,’ she’d say. You speak Spanish?

  –Si, pero prefiero no hablarlo mucho.

  –Por que?

  –Well, en realidad, no es que no me guste hablarlo, solo...

  –It’s alright, amigo. You don’t have to explain. Well, I’m here to pay for culinary school once I’m done with this stint. Gonna own a restaurant in New York City or a taco truck in Montana. We’ll see!

  He wiped his mouth and leaned back, flaunting biceps.

  –So, tell me PFC, do you have a special someone back home? A girlfriend or...?

  –Um, no, no girlfriend.

  –But there’s always time for that, right? You’re young, man!

  –I guess so.

  –Don’t worry, amigo, I gotchu. They call me the love guru, you know? Just stick with me, and you’ll be swimming in chicks! Jajajaja!

  –Do you have a girlfriend Rodriguez?

  –Girlfriend? Sunny grew quiet for a moment and the corners of his mouth drooped. –Yeah, her name’s Lana. He sighed. –She’s pregnant.

  –Oh. Congrats?

  –Gracias, but it wasn’t planned. Now everything’s fucked, you know? Her parents are freaking out. She’s only sixteen…! He buried his face in his hands. –Mierda, what the fuck was I thinking? Her padre’s got a shotgun with my name on it!

  –Shit happens, I suppose.

  –Tell me about it. All the time. Joder! He punched Mark on the shoulder. –So, enough about me! What’s your speciality here, chico?

  –I’m a sniper.

  –Sniper, eh? Gonna be picking off those Talibans one by one, huh? Well, you just remember one thing, in this war, the quiet ones like you are the deadliest.

  Mark smiled politely.

  –And you?

  –I’m a sniper too. I never miss it. Watch out, Talis. El Fenómeno is here!

  –El Fenómeno?

  –That’s what they called me back in the barrio, ese. For my mad skills on the diamond, you know? I was gonna be a star until Uncle Sam called me up for duty. Now I’m out here, making sure America doesn’t get its ass kicked.

  He finished his Coke and burped.

  –Ay chihuahua. Wanna hit up the PX? We can grab some goodies to spice up our room a bit!

  –No, thanks.

  –Suit yourself, Private Grumpy Pants. I’m gonna head out and get some swag. That bunk space will be lit, amigo! Just you wait!

  With a wink, he left, swaggering out the door.

  Mark stayed where he was, trying to calm his racing heart. El Fenómeno, my ass.

  After a moment, he pushed himself up, and his boot hit something. A wallet? He bent down and picked it up. ”No snooping, Markie, God will see you”, Mami used to say, but she wasn’t here, was she? He opened it. Inside were some photos, dollar bills, a driver’s license — and a U.S. Army ID card. It showed a stern, dark-haired man in stripes, with eyes green like the reefs of Cozumel.

  Sweet Jesus on a cornbread.

  Sunny Rodriguez was a captain.