The effects of not sleeping for two nights are finally kicking in. The library's silence wraps around me, taunting me, dangling sleep just out of reach. I’m so tired that my hands are shaking.

I've been staring at my computer screen for the last two hours as the sun creeps over the gothic buildings and reminds me that a new day has started. Hard to be excited about the new day when the last day never ended. I love that our library is open 24 hours. I can only imagine the bizarre stories the night shift has to tell.

I love that they don’t look at me like I’m crazy when I come stumbling in at two in the morning after my shift at The Pint is over and I don’t want to go home.

The articles on the Kurdish women fighters in the PKK are teasing me with these mental images of women warriors who have all their shit together. That are fighting the good fight.

I wonder if any of them have problems sleeping.

Probably. Getting shot at tends to do that to a person. But it’s compelling to think of being able to come home from war and go right back to life the way it was.

What if that was possible? What a powerful fantasy.

Yet here I am in the library as dawn breaks overhead, feeling sorry for myself because I didn't sleep last night while those women are fighting for their very survival.

"Very much a First World problem," I mutter. It's funny but part of me envies those Kurdish women. Their war hasn't ended.

I wonder what they'll do if their war ever does end. Will they have trouble sleeping then?

I scroll through my inbox, avoiding real work. Maybe once upon a time I was motivated. It's hard to remember a time when I wasn’t just treading water.

I stop scrolling when an email catches my eye: it’s one of several replies to my Craigslist ad.

Wait, what the fuck? I never even typed that thing up.

Did I?

I actually posted it?

I breathe in deeply. Clearly the lack of sleep is hitting me harder than I thought. I was awake yesterday when I thought about putting up that ad. I never actually typed it in and I damn sure never published it.

Except that apparently, I did.

And thankfully, Craigslist responses go through their servers, so my email address is anonymous. Saving me from myself and all that.

Jesus, what if there wasn’t an anonymizer on the email address? I can only imagine the toxic sludge that would be filling up my inbox right now.

And apparently there is no shortage of desperate losers asking me to let them hold me while I sleep. There are at least three responses to my ad that I find buried in all the other annoying emails that usually go straight to my spam folder.

My brain is having a difficult time wrapping around the idea that I really posted this stupid thing.

I'm suddenly trying really hard not to cry. I've worked so damn hard on getting my life back to a semblance of normal and now I’m back to graying out levels of insomnia that aren’t even alcohol-induced. I blink back the frustrated tears. I will not lose my shit again. I will not.

I answer my email instead.

Or rather, I delete with impunity.

First one is a dick pic. It might be a giant cock or it might have been some weird sea cucumber that's the stuff of nightmares, but I wouldn't want that or its owner anywhere near my lady parts. I'm sure its owner is a lovely person and all that, but I'm also pretty sure not even a “hi, how are you” introductory email before sending me a picture of his dick knocks him out of the running.

Delete.

The second one is only mildly horrifying. I'd love to hold you while you sleep. I'd watch over you all night long.

I have a vision of this guy staring at me like Hannibal Lecter while I snore on obliviously. And well, we all know how that turned out for anyone Lecter invited to dinner.

Delete.

The third one is…not horrifying. I have to read it a couple of times to make sure I'm reading it right.

It has…potential:

Not sure why I'm replying to this. Sounds really weird. Like, what's wrong with you that you're posting it and what's wrong with me that I'm responding? But you know what? Fuck it. I don't like being alone at night, either.

I frown, reading it again. He sounds…human. Like me. But then that makes me suspicious because if he's like me, just how fucked up is he? Does he drink every morning just to feel normal? I wonder if he’s a soldier. Has he been to war?

Does he miss it?

I'm tired enough that I'm curious, but still coherent and cautious enough not to email him my address immediately.

The temptation of being held while I sleep is alluring, tempting enough to make me want to throw caution to the wind.

I contemplate heading to the yoga studio and trying a restorative class. Maybe a yoga nidra sequence would help me sink into sleep. Yoga nidra is this really cool meditation that brings you to this meditative state between sleeping and waking.

Except that something chased me out of the darkness of my memories the first time I tried it in my new apartment. I’ve done yoga nidra multiple times since then but always at Nalini’s studio. I’m sure the experience is not as enlightening as it could be but I’m afraid to do it alone.

My body is wired to need the physical connection to other people.

Fuck it. I hit reply. Why don't you like being alone at night?

My phone vibrates with the arrival of another email, straight to my spam folder. I love how my phone only acknowledges new spam emails when I actually have that folder open. Otherwise that sucker would be vibrating all the time with all the penis enlargement ads I get.

I wonder what I clicked out on the Internet to end up with all of those.

I dare to hope that it's a reply to my note and am afraid to be disappointed.

But it's him. And his response draws me closer to the idea of him:

The silence.

I read the words again. Then again. Yeah. It's the silence that gets me, too.

I tap out my reply. I used to hear everything in my apartment. Everything. Through the walls. The cars outside. The arguing down the hall. The fucking. The fucking was the worst. Now my apartment is so quiet. I can’t stand it.

I can't believe I'm doing this. Talking like this to a complete stranger on the Internet through an anonymous Craigslist email? Is this what my life has come to?

I think about texting Eli and telling him about what’s going on so they’ll know where to direct the cops if my body ends up dumped out in Eno State Park.

But I'm so goddamned tired. I drop my head back in the chair.

Chatting with this guy could quite possibly be the stupidest thing I have ever done.

I've been walking a fine line since I came home. Since I left the Army.

I want to stay on the line. I want to keep walking it. To keep right on pretending that everything is fine. That reading articles about Kurdish women isn't tempting me to head straight to the recruiting station and beg them to take me back. To send me back over there where at least what I'm doing has a fucking purpose. Unlike now, where everything is endlessly mundane.

I sit there, fidgeting with my phone, reading about the end-of-the-world predictions of some preacher down in Texas. Waiting for a response to my last email.

My phone doesn't vibrate and the disappointment settles like a sour thing in my belly. It figures.

I pick up my laptop and start scanning the articles about the Kurdish women again, hoping that Professor Blake will want us to move the conversation beyond these modern-day warrior women to something less inspiring.

Because as I look at these fierce women, I see what I used to be. I see what I might have become, if the war we'd been fighting had been worth it.

But ours…our war wasn't worth it. None of the loss, the sacrifice…none of that was worth it.

I used to believe it was.

I was wrong.

Six a.m. comes around quick when you never bother to go home. I closed up The Pint hours ago, left Eli and Parker making googly eyes at each other, and waited until Kelsey had gone home before I left to wander the streets until fatigue took hold.

Fatigue never took hold. So I walked. And kept walking, unwilling to head back to my apartment.

Our shift tonight was tense and distant. She wasn't talking and neither was I. We managed to fake it, though. Just like we always do. Smile and wave, right, boys? Keep the customers happy and plied with high-end whiskey, enough to make their expense accounts weep.

I glance down at the email reply on my phone.

I used to hear everything in my apartment. Everything. Through the walls. The cars outside. The arguing down the hall. The fucking. The fucking was the worst. Now my apartment is so quiet. I can’t stand it.

I read it again and again. I contemplate the life choices that brought me to this moment, when I am conversing with a stranger on the Internet. A stranger who asked someone to sleep with them, not for sex but for something far more intimate.

Sleeping next to someone is being willing to be completely vulnerable. Completely exposed.

It's something I haven't done in years. Kelsey was the last person I actually fell asleep next to in bed. If I close my eyes, I can remember how it felt to hold her body against mine. To feel her breath against the scars and tattoos on my chest.

It felt so fucking normal to just lie there and hold her and not worry about getting caught violating General Order Number One.

I've had plenty of partners. Not that I'm bragging, because only insecure douche nozzles brag about that kind of thing. But none of them spend the night. I don't want someone there in the morning when I wake up.

I don't want someone there while I sleep.

This ad, though. The person behind this ad has been haunting me. Teasing me with a sense of familiarity that's nagging at the edge of my brain.

Finally, I find the courage to reply:

Thin walls hold no secrets. You have to assume someone is always listening.

I stuff my phone in my pocket and start walking again, down the new brick sidewalk meant to look like old brick. Past the sun rising over the upscale chocolate shop and the gluten-free bakery that are two blocks away from The Pint. Past Nalini’s yoga studio where the lights are already on. A warm glow pushes away the shadows on the sidewalk.

It’s not strange, wandering the streets, looking for something to pass the time. It’s only strange if I think about avoiding the silence that waits at my own apartment.

Or if I wonder about the person on the other end of the mystery email. What drives someone to put up an ad that’s asked for something so basic as simple human connection? I read an article about it a couple of weeks ago. About people who sign up for cuddling with random strangers. I rolled my eyes when I read it.

And then it hit me how much I miss simple human connection.

My phone vibrates and a reminder pops up. We've got a delivery scheduled for seven a.m. Looks like I'll get some manual labor done before I try to crash before my shift tonight.

I head back toward The Pint. The streets are empty and damp; only a few people are out and about at this early hour. There's a sleepy stillness to the city that seems to contain the potential of the coming day's noise and hustle.

I walk past 1984, the bookstore-slash-hippie meeting place-slash-coffee shop. The lure of fresh brew is a temptation that's too compelling to ignore. Coffee is in plenty of supply in this town and every single small coffee shop offers something unique.

I make a beeline to the counter, focused entirely on getting a badly needed cup of coffee. I'm tangentially absorbing the books and incense and the overarching feeling of calm that exists in this space.

I order a large espresso with three shots and pay the far too mellow clerk. Then I look around while I'm waiting for the coffee.

A small white elephant-headed figurine catches my eye. It’s a man but with the head of an elephant. The symbol on its palm is similar to the one on Kelsey's wrist.

I pick it up, feeling drawn to it in a way I can’t explain, other than that it seems like something she might like.

"Do you know who he is?" the clerk asks, handing me my coffee, then taking my money for the little statue.

"Him?"

She offers a glassy smile. "Ganesh."

I assume that means something to her and say nothing further. I'm not exactly sure what I'm going to do with it or how I'm going to give it to Kelsey without things getting incredibly awkward. I’ll figure it out.

* * *

I unlock the doors to The Pint and drop my jacket in the staff room, putting the statue in with the change of clothes I keep in the basement. It's always good to have a change of clothes when you work at a bar. You never really know when you'll need them. I tuck the statue beneath a clean T-shirt and take another sip from my glorious coffee.

Guess I'll get cracking on the inventory before the delivery arrives. We've got to account for all the bottles to comply with state law and Eli is incredibly anal that the basement stays organized and neat, with all of the expensive whiskies lined up and orderly. Like little alcohol soldiers standing in formation.

I think his officer brain taught him to need the order to hold back the chaos. I don't think like that. Life is a bit more immediate for me these days. Some days I'm just happy to wake up because that means I actually fell asleep.

It's amazing how little sleep the human body can run on. It's not an ideal way to live. I'd like to actually fix myself but I'm a little skeptical of docs that like to sling medicine at a problem without actually trying to fix the problem. ’Course, what ails me isn't really fixable with a pill, anyway.

The basement is creepy and cold on a good day. I plug my phone into the charger that someone left by the stairs, that miraculously fits my phone, and turn up my most recent heavy metal playlist.

Metal isn't for everyone and it's not the only thing I listen to, but I like the rawness of it: the pure primal vocals, the pounding rhythm. It's fucking primitive and right now, I need that to distract me from the cold emptiness of the basement and the boxes and crates of whiskey and liquor.

Last week's shipment needs to be moved to make room for this week’s. Normally, this is a two-person job but I'm edgy enough to need the labor. Time to move crates.

I need to be distracted from the circular thoughts twisting in my brain.

Five Finger Death Punch comes on. “No One Gets Left Behind” hits all the right notes.

What did we fight for? What the fuck are we dying for? I swallow a hard breath, one that rips through my lungs and tears at my throat.

The pointlessness of the fucking war doesn't eat at me every day but sometimes, sometimes, it hits me. There was no grand cause like my grandfather's war. No Nazis to punch, no homeland to defend.

We were lied to. We fought, we bled, and we died, so that fucking contractors and DC power players could get rich on oil rights.

I can feel the anger building. The rage. The need to lash out. To release the hatred that burns in me for the so-called leaders who set us up to fail.

For the officers who looked at Kelsey and said she was fucked up before she came in. Who said the Army didn't owe her anything.

For the officers who told me to stop being a pussy-whipped puppy and leave her to do whatever she was going to do.

Have you no honor? The violence of the song pounds in my brain. Most of the officers I served with didn't know the meaning of the word.

I stack another crate onto the last one I moved.

"Who pissed you off?" Her voice shatters my concentration violently.

By scaring the shit out of me.