When someone, a civilian, dies here, in America, there’s a place to go to visit, to think of the person, to leave notes or flowers. There, on the battlefield, your battle buddy is shot. You keep runnin’ and gunnin’ because you have to, and someone else drags their body to safety. They’re loaded onto the bird, and the spot of land where they were killed just blends into the rest of the Afghan landscape. Their body is flown back to their home state, where a funeral is held, while you’re still deployed, pretending like it didn’t affect you.