Up in my attic, I put on one of Dad’s old metal CDs. Then I cut loose on my punching bag, throwing the right side of my whole upper body forward to slam my fist into the fabric, then following it with a bunch of low jabs, right and left and right and left. I twisted my lower body around, turning my upper torso the opposite way for balance as I swept my right leg up in a kick. “Almost sixteen …” Another kick. “Can’t have a simple homework meeting with a girl.” I threw a fast series of punches, right-left, as fast as I could. “Can’t date …” Right-left, right-left. “Hardly any friends.” Punch-punch. A kick with the knee. “Got to sneak around to play football like a normal guy.” Punch-punch-punch-punch-punch. “Never do anything!”

I pressed my fists to the side of my head so hard that my arms shook. A bead of sweat ran down my cheek.

“Mike?” Mary said quietly from the other side of the sheet.

I was not in the mood to listen to my snotty little sister’s I-told-you-sos. “Go away!” The music stopped. “I said get out of here!”

“Trust me,” she said, “the last thing I want to do is hang out in your weirdo attic. The mail came while you and Isma were … doing whatever you two were doing up here.”

“We were just working on a project for —” Why explain myself to her? “Just leave!”

“You got another letter. Doesn’t say from who.”

I whisked the curtain aside and snatched the envelope from her fingers.

“Who keeps sending —”

“None of your business,” I said. She always hated hearing about Dad, so why should she be in on his letters now?

“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “In a normal family, people would just text or email.”

“This isn’t a normal family.”

“I know.” Mary stopped halfway down the stairs. “About Isma … What Mom said about her is way messed up.”

She left me staring after her. Something was rotten in the state of Iowa when my sister and I actually agreed on something.

I looked at the new envelope in my hands. This one was thicker than the others, but it had been addressed with the same sloppy handwriting, the same Iowa City postmark, and no return address. Trying to calm myself, I sat down at my desk and opened the envelope. Again, no note had come from whoever had mailed this letter. I remembered Isma’s suggestion about contacting Ed Hughes. Maybe that would lead to some answers.

For now, I took out the message that my father had written years ago. He had said that part of the point of these letters was to give me advice. I hoped he had some answers to all the questions I had about how I was supposed to handle life. About how I was supposed to deal with Mom.

Sunday, July 4, 2004 (329 Days Left)

Dear Michael,

Happy 4th of July! And greetings from my new home in the city of Farah. These have been a few of the craziest weeks of my life. If the rest of my time here goes like this, I will have many stories to tell when I get home. I only pray that I’ll be able to tell you all of them in person.

Of course, if you’re reading this …

We spent about three weeks in the city of Herat in northwest Afghanistan, where I last wrote to you. I miss that place already. The base there was a nice place with a great chow hall in the basement, rooms with air-conditioning, and showers available whenever we wanted them. Hot water, even. The city is pretty advanced as far as Afghanistan goes. A lot of the streets are paved, and we could even go to the little shops a few times.

That didn’t last, since orders came down for us to pack up and prepare to move to Farah. So we drove south through the blazing-hot Afghan desert. If you’ve seen photographs of the surface of Mars, that was what it looked like out there.

Little Mikey, the seven-year-old version of you, who’s at home right now as I write this, thinks I’m super brave. He thinks I’m fearless because I’ve gone to this war. Of course, that’s how I acted when I left, so that I wouldn’t scare you all. But now that you’re old enough for the truth, I need you to know that I was terrified on the mission south to Farah. That was the first time when we were all really out in the open on our own. If the Taliban would have ambushed us along the road when all we had was one combat squad with some cooks and medics, and all of us in weak little civilian Toyota trucks, we’d have all been killed. The convoy made it safely, though.

The city of Farah is a crazy place. It’s not as large as Herat, but it’s a lot bigger than any of the villages we drove through on the way. It has two streets that have recently been paved, the bazaar road and one cross street. The rest are bumpy and made of dirt and rock. Almost all the buildings are one-story mud brick, all hidden away behind mud-brick walls.

I can’t believe this is where I’ll be living and working for the next year. Our base here isn’t even finished yet. We have no air conditioners and it gets up to about 120 degrees some days. We have no refrigeration, so we’re stuck with field rations for every meal. Our well isn’t deep enough yet, so it often goes dry. Because of this, we get a shower once every three days, and then for a maximum of three minutes of water use. If the well goes dry on your scheduled shower day? Go pound sand. See you in three days.

I was down at the bazaar here in Farah yesterday and these two young Afghan men came up to me. You know how you can just tell when someone wants to fight? I knew they were mad about something. Now, I had my M16, and neither man seemed to have any weapons, but I couldn’t be sure that they were unarmed, and I didn’t know how many of their buddies were around. So I smiled, said “Hello, friend” in their language, and reached out to shake their hands. They wouldn’t shake, but still acted mad. I kept smiling, kept calling them friends, and insisted they shake my hand. In the end, we were able to buy our stuff and leave without fighting and without having to be all arrogant while bossing people around.

Fighting is horrible, Michael. Never start a fight or be one of those guys who enjoys fighting. Still, at the same time, those people who say violence never solves anything are full of crap. When a fight is unavoidable, when you’re being attacked, or when there’s absolutely no way out of a situation without being totally dishonored, then make sure you WIN the fight. Fight one on one, never with a group. And unless you’re wrestling around with a guy on the ground, never punch or kick a man who’s down. Let a guy get up first. Tear into him hard and beat him until he gives up. Then stop immediately.

Of course, never, ever hit a woman. Not even if you think she deserves it. Actually, don’t even think that, or joke about it or allow others around you to joke about it. Even if a woman is attacking you, and you risk taking on some injuries to yourself, even then, never hit a woman.

Our base is so far out west, so far away from our main base at Bagram, that it is hard to arrange support flights. That means all our food is shipped in by slow trucks, and the chaplain for our Iowa task force will only be visiting once or twice through the whole deployment. We had our first church service sitting in the blazing-hot ammo bunker that we’ve built. There we were, sitting on cans of 5.56 rounds or on crates of Claymore antipersonnel mines, saying the Lord’s Prayer. It is a humble church, but I think every one of us meant those prayers more than at any other time in our lives.

Michael, I want you to go to church. Learn about Jesus. Read the Bible, so that you have your own understanding of the Lord and of right and wrong, not just what someone tells you to think. These things are important. I tell you, son, if I didn’t have faith, I don’t know how I’d make it through this. I’ve talked to your mother about making sure she gets you to church and Sunday school while I’m gone.

I remembered that! We used to go to the Methodist church all the time when I was a little kid. I think we only went once or twice after Dad died, though. Now that I’d grown up, maybe I could see about attending services again.

Speaking … or writing … of your mother. I know I’ve already asked you to help her and your sister out, but I can’t stress that enough. I know that when you’re a teenager, it can be a real challenge to get along with your mother.

I looked up from the page. Years ago, Dad had meant for me to be reading his advice about God somewhere close to this day. Was it God’s will that I read what Dad had to say about Mom on the night she went crazy on me? Providence or coincidence, I welcomed his thoughts.

Your mother will annoy you. That’s what mothers do. Remember the Bible says you should honor your father and mother. If you’re reading this letter now, I’ve made it a lot easier to put up with me. But I’m telling you to respect your mom and be kind to her. Help her out, okay? This deployment is rough on her. She hasn’t been didn’t handle this deployment so well.

Your mom’s had it rough all her life. Her father abandoned his family, and her mother wasn’t so great to her. But your mom worked through all that. She’s one of the hardest-working people I know. Maybe she’s remarried by the time you get this. That would offer her a little help, but even then … Trust me, it’s hard work raising two kids. If she’s brought you up on her own, then she’s working all day only to come home and work taking care of you, Mary, and the house. The next time you’re mad at her, try to think of all she’s done for you, of all she’s sacrificed.

Likewise, go easy on your sister. She’s younger than you, so don’t expect her to be so mature. When your mom decides she’s old enough to date, make sure her boyfriends are afraid of you.

That’s your mission this time. Do something nice for your mom or sister or both. It should be something extra. So if you’re already taking out the trash or washing the dishes on a regular basis, find something more, maybe something unexpected that will really make their day. I’m sure you’ll think of something, but if you need help, remember you can always ask Ortiz. He’s a good guy. You can trust him.

Ortiz again. That part of Dad’s plan hadn’t worked out. Why was the Mystery Mailer staying so quiet through all of this? Why wouldn’t he contact me?

Some nights Ortiz and me and some of the guys get together to smoke cheap cigars and talk about life, politics, women, the war, and everything. We call this group the Gentlemen’s Smoking Club. The GSC were talking on our first night in Farah, and we were all feeling kind of down. There we were, on this base that wasn’t even close to finished. We don’t have many guys, we have few weapons, and we don’t even have tactical vehicles yet.

So I said to the guys, “Look. We’re the Army National Guard. Some of our equipment, like our radios and rifles, may not be the newest and best, but we still get the job done. Out here in the middle of nowhere, we’ve had to figure out how to handle things on our own, like cowboys out on the range. We might not always be completely sure how to solve a problem or carry out the mission, but we do it anyway. It’s the Cowboy Way.”

Cookmaster (our cook — just about everybody out here has a nickname. One poor kid in Bravo team is stuck being called Weebly.) raised his paper coffee cup in the air and made a toast. “Here’s to the Cowboy Way.”

Saddle up, Michael. Don’t shy away from doing good things because you’re afraid or because you’re not sure how, or you’re not sure if it will work out or not. Follow your heart. Have the courage to do what you know to be right in life and in love. If you don’t feel the courage, then just act like you do. Nobody will know the difference. I didn’t make it, so it’s up to you to live the Cowboy Way.

Love,

Dad

Do something nice for Mom or Mary? Right now, I was too angry to even begin to imagine how to complete this mission. I guess I’d have to figure it out. It was what Dad called the Cowboy Way.