The Humvee I was riding in jerked over a rut in the road, knocking my Kevlar against the plate glass window I was slouching too close to. I scowled and leaned back into my seat away from the small, square view. Endless dunes rolled in the distance; broken up only by the lead vehicle that lumbered up ahead. It wasn't often that my job necessitated leaving the FOB in a convoy but today just happened to be one of those days.

I was happy the A/C legitimately worked, struggling to keep the triple digit temperature where it belonged, outside. It certainly didn't help that the top gunner occupied a giant, cold sucking hole in the roof. I turned my attention back to the empty expanse and quietly observed. Nothing out of the ordinary. Even with the A/C humming at full tilt I was sweating underneath the MARPAT blouse and plate carrier, matting my fur uncomfortably. Luckily I had managed to ditch the much hotter and vastly more uncomfortable MTV. Not like I would ever need all that extra kevlar padding that only managed to weigh be down and sweat more.

The turret gunner, Sutherland, couched down into the cabin from behind his fifty-cal and scowled. I didn't envy the black panther's color one bit.

"It's like the Ant-fucking-arctic down here!" He called over the rumbling diesel engine. "Must be fucking nice!" The four other occupants laughed and told him to get back out because he was letting all the cold out without his, 'fat ass', blocking the hole.

Elkenson sat in the front passenger seat in front of me. His stubby claws danced on the butt stock of his M4 to the music that strained to be heard. The dull brown desert fox could always be counted on to bring his Zune and portable speakers. Nobody objected to anything that broke up the monotony of a convoy, despite how their superiors might object. Besides, Corporal knows best. The music was fast, angry and morbidly relaxing. I quickly found my head bobbing to the heavy beat of the bass.

Our Humvee hit another pothole and I readjusted in my seat, relieving the soreness in my ass and crushed tail. I moved the barrel of my M4 so it wasn't sticking me in the leg. Weapon safety rule number two: Never point a weapon at anything you do not intend to shoot. I looked over at Anders in the seat adjacent to mine and the calico turned from his own mind numbing view. He regarded me behind his tinted ballistic lenses and his frown deepened.

"Having fun yet?"

"Fuck you, Beckett!" He hissed with more vehemence than I was expecting. Brown, the driver, a Great Dane and Golden Retriever mix, looked over his shoulder at me. I quickly reflected on the fact that I couldn't fathom what the fuck his parents were thinking.

"What kind of dick question is that, Bucket?" I frowned at the nickname and crossed my arms over top of my magazine pouches.

"God damn, what is up all of your asses?"

"This shitty seat." Elkenson interjected unexpectedly; everybody chuckled in agreement.

"I'm sure that isn't the only thing!" Sutherland chipped in from the armored turret. Elkenson grabbed the gunner's leg and tried to yank him down into the interior from his perch. There was a momentary struggle, arms and legs dancing, until Sutherland's boot rocked Elkenson's head through his Kevlar. Another bout of laughter echoed in the cramped cabin.

I sighed and put my arm on the middle section after the scuffle ended, resting my artificially heavy head in my palm. "Are we there yet, Daddy?" I whined.

"No."

"Almost?"

"Nope."

"Turn the A/C up."

"It's already maxed out!"

"This Humvee blows." Brown turned completely in his seat, one hand holding the steering wheel straight. Turning his massive bulk in the tiny space was quite a spectacle. Being a red wolf myself made it easier to appreciate his skill when I had a hard time doing the same. I could clearly see, 'I will end you,' in his eyes.

"Shouldn't you be watching the road?" I asked churlishly. "Hey, Corporal A-Driver, control your Marine!" Elkenson growled and threw an empty Rip-It can at me over his shoulder. "Hey Lance Corporal back seat asshole, query: Why are you so annoying?"

"This recruit finds it entertaining, aye sir!" I yelped back sarcastically. That set everybody off shouting like a Drill Instructor for a couple of minutes. I slid open the heavy window and leaned close to spit out. I cleared my throat and my lips formed the most efficient shape to expel the glob of saliva in the most effective and distancing manner. Just as I flexed my diaphragm, rolled my tongue and expended a measured amount of breath to put sufficient thrust behind the wet projectile another barbaric, chemical force erupted towards me.

Much of what happened after that exact moment in time is either a blur or an empty gap in my memory. I vividly remember feeling all the blood soaking into my fur; down my legs, muzzle and out my ears. The yelling and agonized screaming that, I think, was my own. Feeling the heat of the fire singing my fur. I remember the sand clinging to my incinerated flesh in places, soaking up the congealing blood. The horrible pain gnawing at my spine and brain; unbearable pressure in my skull. They told me after that I had tried to get up and fight a non-existent enemy. It had been a pressure plate IED, there was no enemy to let out the agony and sorrow on.

Elkenson didn't make it. The front right tire, engine and front passenger compartment took the brunt of the blast. Fifty pounds of HME (Home Made Explosive) buried only slightly under the road is never a good day. I never did see what the Humvee looked like afterward. In fact, the empty miles of sand and sun through an armored door window was the last thing I ever saw. Tragic, I know. At least you're alive, they tell me.

That was coming up on two years ago next month. Two years of recovery and rehabilitation. Two years of never ending darkness in every direction. The pain of my healing wounds was surpassed by the intense loneliness and uselessness I felt that first year. I was medically discharged from the Corps with a pat on the back and a thank you. A blind wolf is no use to Uncle Sam. Obviously I can't see the scars, the constant reminders to anybody that sees me, but I'm told they are numerous. My eyes are still intact and I am thankful for that; at least I don't look completely grotesque. I have found that wearing a pair of lightly tinted sunglasses puts people at ease when talking to me. They don't have to feel awkward if they can't actually see my milky eyeballs.

The struggle to regain mobility in my legs was a lengthy endeavor but I refused to lose anything else. Today I'm like any other normal guy aside from the screws, rods, plates and cane.

At this moment I find myself seated at the bar of my brother's favorite pub. For a pub it sounds large and I've counted twenty-eight different voices over the drone of the music; my ears always on a constant swivel.

Today is my younger brother's birthday and I told him I would come. Originally he was concerned I would take offense to being invited to a bar; I had a severe drinking problem less than six months ago, but I assured him I would be perfectly alright in the environment. I made a point of informing the bartender not to give me more than three drinks.

The past few months had been going surprisingly well. My grip on Braille is improving every day and I've been much more confident walking about town on my own. It was odd to feel free just by walking outside of my house without assistance. Not having to rely on somebody else to guide me. What they always said is definitely true, my other senses have improved markedly.

Now let me tell you a little bit about my brother. He is a full-time fire fighter and has always supported my decision to join. I think he was more crushed than my parents when the news broke that I had been wounded. His invincible Marine big brother, blown up and mangled: impossible. The Big Bad Wolf never got hurt. Anyways, my brother is a great guy, surrounded by true friends. His personality fits to his job so perfectly I can't imagine him doing anything else. I think he's better at it than any stupid dalmatian! One of his co-workers is a former Marine, he had told me on the way to the bar. You might find it strange that I perked up at the news. It has been a while since I last talked to another Marine; nobody else ever seems to understand when I try to tell them why I feel the way I do about what happened. I was secretly hoping to have a normal conversation with somebody that could honestly sympathize.

My brother, Dan, came over and sat with me. I could hear the concern for me in his voice, an underlying tension along with it. He was worried I was falling back into my old form of coping with the eternal darkness through a bottle. My old glass prison, a shattered fortress.

"Why don't you come sit with the group?"

"The stool is plenty comfortable. I'm enjoying the conversation perfectly fine from here." I turned my head to face him; another trick I picked up that people respond to, perceived eye contact. "Besides, I don't want to become the center of attention at your birthday."

Dan sighed in acknowledgment and patted my shoulder affectionately as he left, tail brushing against mine. I promised him I had set myself a three drink limit and that I would make my way over when things died down. A lot of people in a confined area was still stressful, but I was too prideful to admit that to my little brother. I sipped my vodka tonic and tried to follow the distant conversation. The front door squealed open into my thoughts but I paid it little mind.

"Hey Marine!" My head instinctively snapped in the direction of the voice and my spine snapped straight. I rotated on the stool as the footfalls approached. You might wonder how he knew I was a Marine, but through everything that has happened I'm still a closet motivator. Whenever I went on leave I sported my 'USMC' moto-gear but never when on or anywhere near a base. I held out my paw expectantly and was promptly jerked onto my feet, hand gripped tightly as an arm crushed me against the broader man. My brother had neglected to tell me his co-worker was a fucking bear, I could easily tell by his scent. The feelings that welled up inside caught me off guard. We had never met but I suddenly felt like I had a lifeline out of the black. His iron grip relented, I sank back onto my stool and composed myself.

"Two shots, please!"

Two glasses clinked onto the hardwood bar and alcohol sloshed noisily into them. He made a point of placing the shot glass in my hand; my brother must have told this fellow all about me already. I felt I was at a disadvantage in this encounter. My glass held aloft to toast he obliged and we simultaneously partook of what ended up being peppermint schnapps, an interesting choice. I gingerly set my glass on the polished surface, pads lingering and leaned against the bar.

"Great to finally meet the big Bucket!" He laughed at the nickname and I saw Corporal Elkenson laughing blearily in my mind's eye, his muzzle split grotesquely, with him as he called me Bucket. The image dissolved in rolling flames and my old injuries tingled.

"Uh, yeah, it's great to meet you-" I paused.

"Robert." He supplied. We sat and talked for a long time, swapping stories and experiences from our time in the Corps. I was surprised at how, even without sight, I could still clearly see everything we discussed. We just met but I felt like we were long lost brothers being reunited. My third drink finally ran dry and I pulled out my wallet to pay my tab. Robert quickly pushed my hand aside and told me to, 'put that shit away'. After he payed my tab I thanked him and suggested he spend time with my brother on his big day. It was his birthday party after all. I was surprised when he agreed and didn't try to show pity and urge me to join them. It was refreshing, he understood.

I waved my hand over my head after stewing in my own thoughts and hoped the bartender saw it. He loudly made his way over to me and I asked him where the bathroom was. With as much detail as possible and distance estimates he informed me. It's amazing how hard it is to find something as simple as a bathroom in a bar when you're blind. The thing already has to be easy enough for somebody that's hammered enough to almost be blind to find. I stood slowly, adjusted my shirt and poked my cane out ahead of me.

The heat of an arm suddenly hooking around mine caught me off guard and I jerked away. Whoever owned the arm pulled closer and the warmth of their body radiated into my left side.

"Would you mind the aid of a seeing eye dog?" A pleasantly cute female voice politely asked. I was surprised and already in her grasp, how could I, a simple man, turn a voice as sweet and oddly familiar as hers down. She guided me to and from the restroom, ensuring that nothing got in my way. While I enjoyed the accompaniment I assumed she was simply being nice and prepared to express my gratitude and excuse myself from her presence.

There have been few times in my life that I have been happy to be completely wrong. "I am going to go out on a limb and assume your real name isn't Bucket." I grinned and turned to where her bubbly voice had been.

"Thankfully, no. My real name is Isaac." I could hear her smile as she introduced herself, Joan. I must have had a very stupid look on my face because she laughed openly. Joan was an old friend from high school whom I hadn't talked to since before I joined. If my brother had brought her along and didn't tell me I was going to make my displeasure with him very well known later. My memory is rather sketchy, but she was an attractive and fit rottweiler that I may have had a bit of a crush on in high school. Words flowed between us with ease and I soaked up every one. We had a lot of lost time to make up for and I felt lucky for the first time in ages. Later I would have to be sure to ask my brother if she was as attractive as I remembered. Not that it really mattered.

I felt her hand cover mine on the bar and savored the warmth the seeped into mine. For a fleeting moment I swore I glimpsed a pinprick of light stabbing through into the infallible twilight that I lived.