ON A HOT AFTERNOON in mid-August not long after I got home from the road trip, Josh helped me move into a house near Georgetown University. I didn’t have much to move: just a desk, mattress, small fridge, footlocker, and an old thrift-store chair Fred loved to sleep in. I also still had a few of Josh’s things, including the leg that broke in the redwoods.
Josh showed up with a clean shave and fresh haircut. He was interviewing for jobs.
After lugging furniture up to my room, we sat out on the back porch. The deck overlooked a small fenced-in backyard with patches of grass and bricks. We watched parents moving their kids into college housing units around us.
We talked about the year ahead, how Josh was looking for a job and I was looking forward to starting classes and playing ice hockey. We talked about the trip and how parts felt almost like being in the military.
“I feel like a jerk for the things I said in Minneapolis,” I said. I wanted to clear the air. “I was out of line trying to tell you how to deal with your issues.”
During our argument, I had told Josh not to let his injury become the most interesting thing about him. I had been too harsh.
“You weren’t wrong about it,” Josh said. “I definitely saw what I can do this summer. I know I need to value my time here and not just coast through it.”
“We both need to make sure we never forget that,” I said.
Josh helped me recognize things in myself. We didn’t want to be considered victims because of what we’d been through in Afghanistan. We’d both had near-death experiences and seen our friends die, and we knew we were lucky to be alive. That’s why we pushed ourselves so hard. The challenge kept us moving forward.
We were both so used to saying we were “fine” that it had become difficult to admit when we weren’t. We didn’t want our friends and families to treat us differently, but the truth was that some things about us were different. Josh and I were both trying to figure out how to live fulfilling lives after the military.
“I think it’ll be a long time before we know just how important this summer was,” Josh said.
I knew he was right.
In the spring of 2016, I graduated from Georgetown University with a Bachelor of Arts in Liberal Studies and a concentration in International Affairs. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do next. I heard my dad’s words in my head: “You’ve got a degree now. You need to focus on getting back to work in a stable job with a future.” He wasn’t wrong, but I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do.
I didn’t want to return to a conventional job. I was terrified that I would find myself sixty years old and not feeling proud of what I’d done with my life.
Before the road trip, I’d met a girl named Nora. She was a musician—creative, outgoing, and incredibly pretty, with a smile that lit up the room. We’d kept in touch, sharing updates about our lives and checking in with each other. Before my final semester at Georgetown, we started dating, and after graduation we moved in together. The four of us became a family: Nora, Nora’s dog Ruby (an energetic little terrier mix), Fred, and me.
Nora worked an office job that paid the bills while I worked at a men’s clothing store and tried to figure out what to do with my life. I applied for a job with a high-profile government contractor. I went through round after round of interviews. Finally, they made me an offer. Before I could commit, I had to reinstate my security clearance, which had lapsed while I was in school.
As summer turned into fall, I began planning the fourth annual memorial fund-raiser event in Justin’s honor. I had started it in 2013 after a friend who had heard me talk about Justin encouraged me to hold an event on the anniversary of his death. I called Justin’s wife, Ann, who lived in Pittsburgh, and she recommended that the donations be given to TAPS—the Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors—a nonprofit that provides grief counseling to families of military members and emergency responders who have died.
The first year I made T-shirts that said SCHMALLS on the front—Justin’s nickname—and had a Bruce Lee quote on the back: “Real living is living for others.” A friend of mine who owned a bar hosted the event and all the proceeds of the night went to TAPS. The event became bigger and bigger each year.
The year I graduated, Justin’s parents agreed to come for the first time. I had joined a cover band as the drummer, and we planned to play for the night. I was anxious but determined to make it a memorable event—the best one yet.
Then, I got a call from the company that had offered me the intelligence job. To get the job, I needed to pass a polygraph test, which was scheduled for the morning after Justin’s fund-raiser. I called them immediately and asked to reschedule, even explaining I was hosting an event for a friend who had been killed in action.
“Sorry, but we don’t reschedule polygraphs,” the representative said. “That’s your date.”
We had scheduled the fund-raiser for the Wednesday night after Thanksgiving. It was cold and rainy, and ticket presales hadn’t been great. I was nervous. I showed up that afternoon to set up. We made signs, decorated, and arranged the T-shirt table. At seven PM, when the doors opened, Justin’s parents were the first to arrive. The venue manager, who also happened to be a marine veteran, met them at the door and showed them inside. When he told me they were there, my heart pounded.
Keep it together, man, I thought. I introduced myself and held out my hand to Justin’s dad, John. He looked at my hand and said, “No, I’m a hugger.” He pulled me in for a bear hug.
Justin’s mom, Deborah, had a quiet confidence that reminded me of Justin.
My dad joined us and the conversation turned to Pittsburgh. I told them how Justin’s accent had been the first thing I’d picked up on. As we talked, I watched the crowd grow. Josh was there, as well as friends from my former job, including my former commanding officer and the sniper I used to eat lunch with. Friends from the military showed up, in addition to a number of my high school buddies. Ten minutes before the show started, the entire Georgetown club hockey team appeared with a bunch of their friends in tow. People from nearly every corner of my life had come together and were gathered all in one place.
After we played the first set, my friend who owned the bar made some remarks. “This is one of my favorite nights of the year,” he said. “We’re all here to think about someone who left us too soon.” He introduced Justin’s dad, John.
“Justin would have been totally overwhelmed with all of this attention,” John said. “But it means a lot to me and my family to see all of you here and to know my son’s memory isn’t gone. Thank you.”
Through tears, I got up and thanked everyone in the room for being there. After we finished playing, I spent the rest of the night by John’s side, listening to funny stories about Justin as a kid and about his wedding day. I went to bed that night exhausted, but feeling that I had done something important.
Before leaving for the fund-raiser that afternoon, I had arranged my suit on the bed to prepare for the polygraph the next morning. Moving forward with the new job made a lot of sense: it would offer a good income, a clear career path, and a sensible retirement account. It was the practical choice.
It was also the kind of choice I had avoided my entire life. If I had lived my life the practical way, I wouldn’t have joined the marines, gone to Afghanistan, or met Justin. I wouldn’t have moved to the city, enrolled at Georgetown, or gone on the road trip. And I wouldn’t have Fred.
The morning after Justin’s fund-raiser, I skipped the polygraph test. Instead, I wrote an email about Fred and sent it to a website called The Dodo, knowing they published unusual and uplifting stories about animals. The next day, the editor published an article about Fred and me, along with a video of our story. An editor at a publishing house saw that post and asked me to write a book—the book you are reading.
I had done a lot of academic writing in school, but I wanted to share something more personal. I thought it would help me make sense of what I’d been through. At first I didn’t know how to write about war or the marines or my time in Afghanistan, and then I realized the right place to start was with Fred.
Fred and I have been through a lot together, both in Afghanistan and at home. He has taught me a lot about life and about myself.
Fred has taught me that a loving, adventurous, and rewarding life is possible if I choose to be optimistic.
He has reminded me to love unconditionally and joyfully.
He has given me the strength to face my challenges, even when I haven’t wanted to.
He has helped me learn not to take a moment of my life for granted. He has shown me the power of stubborn positivity and what is possible when I understand that it is not what happens to me, but how I react, that matters.
Fred came into my life when I needed him most. I rescued Fred once, but he has rescued me again and again.