They lived on a horse farm, and all his life the boy had watched his old man train the wilderness out of creatures that could’ve stomped him into nothing. Naturally, that made the boy proud of his father, which, after witnessing the routine extents of his courage day after sweltering day on the dusty plains of a midwestern country, made him want to grow up into someone just like him. So when his mother presented the draft letter one morning over breakfast, there was only one response he could give.

“I’m going.”

His father, who always had a hearty appetite (even in his old age), said not a word. But he did set down his newspaper, folding it prior with the patience of a man who knew that life was so very short and excruciatingly prolonged at the same time, before staring into his son’s steady eyes. There was a keen determination in them, a sight that made him nod while bringing a chunk of sausage to his lips, but also a hint of fear. He thanked his wife, who watched apprehensively from her side of the table, before taking a sip of warm orange juice from a cup his son had made in his developing years. On one side were the words, The bestest dad in the whole world, and his eyes glanced over them after clearing his throat and wiping his lips with a napkin.

“Where are you going?” his father asked.

“To war,” the son replied. His mother’s eyes darkened at the confident words.

“You think you’re going,” his father stated. There was no ambiguity to the words, no room for interpretation or disagreement, but the boy, who was to his father still in fact a boy despite his age and strength of body, still managed.

“There’s no thinking, pa. I’m going, and I’ve made up my mind.”

“You haven’t made up shit.”

“Angel…”

His mother’s voice pulled at his heart, but there was no backing down from a man like his father, and so the boy sat straighter in his chair and glared with the single minded dominance that had made horses bow their heads and obey more times than he could count.

“You’d do the same if you were me. I know you would.” The boy pointed over his mother’s shoulder to a field visible outside of a cracked window, and beyond at a land covered in crops, wild flowers, and the majesty of animals that refused to bow down to the conquest of man. It was a land perhaps prouder than even his father, and the old man’s eyes followed his son’s finger until they lingered on it. “Someone has to fight to keep everything we love safe. Men have done it before, and now it’s my turn. I’m sorry, but there’s no discussing this, pa.” The boy intensified his demeanor while lifting his chin. “The call’s been made and I’ll be damned if I don’t answer it.”

His father sucked his teeth. Then it appeared he might laugh. He looked up at the kitchen ceiling, noticing stains of food his boy had flung when first learning how to eat, and closed his eyes. The boy looked to his mother, but her gaze was cast down into her lap. She folded her hands on the table cloth before shaking her head, and that was when his father sighed and excused himself. He thanked his wife for the meal, grabbing the back of her head before planting a kiss on her closed and wavering lips, and left the house, not bothering to stop the back door from slamming shut at his back.

The boy adjusted the brim of his cap while watching his father work. The horses were more ornery than usual, bucking and standing on their hind legs whenever his father barked an order. But eventually, as they always did, obedience became their mantra, and in time, as he always did, his father lowered his voice and treated the sweating animals with affection, patting and rubbing their glistening sides while singing familiar hymns. Despite the harshness of his father’s training, the animals loved him, and as he brought the leanness of his arms up onto the splintered fence that surrounded master and servant, watching his old man feed the calmed horses their afternoon meal, the boy knew without a doubt that he did as well, regardless of how his decision would affect them.

After leaving the enclosure his father ignored him in passing, but the boy understood. He simply followed the older man to a barn that had seen better days and wordlessly joined him in cleaning stables. Together, they fell into a rhythm, their shovels and pitchforks creating a language refined by over a decade of cooperation and even their breaths pronounced phrases that either spurred or slowed their progress. Eventually it was time for a break, and while seated on an uneven bench under massive beams of wood, his father broke a sandwich of meat and cheese in two and handed the larger half to his son.

They ate in silence for a while, both father and son staring down at their food while chewing and deliberating, until a curious mouse scurried out from underneath a nearby pile of hay to approach the crumbs of bread and cheese scattered at their feet. Neither did a thing to stop the tiny creature from sniffing and eventually nibbling, and both noticed how careful it was to keep them in its sights while scarfing down their unintended gift.

“I’m not like this mouse, pa,” the boy said softly before biting into his sandwich. When his father stayed quiet he swallowed while wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m not fragile, and I won’t stand hiding here while everything we love is threatened.” He turned his head to glance at his father’s hands; large, lumpy fingers were attached to palms turned to leather from years of toiling under the sun. “I couldn’t live with myself if I stayed here. And neither could you.” He smiled down at the mouse as it squeaked, inviting two others to join in its feast. “Protecting those who can’t protect themselves is always the right thing to do.”

His father sighed, then drank generously from a canteen so abused its polyethylene had grown layers of fuzz. “I take it you’re not scared then.”

The boy thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I’m not.”

“You’re a damn liar,” the old man responded. He tore a piece of meat from what remained of his sandwich and tossed it down at the mice, who instantly scattered while squeaking in alarm. “Everyone is scared of what they don’t know, son. Even if only a little. And you don’t know a thing about war.”

“I know my old man survived,” the boy responded with a frown. “Which means I can too.”

“And if you don’t?”

“I’ve...Continue Reading