Joseph Bell, Petty Officer Third Class, stepped down off the last step of the rumbling Greyhound bus and stood under the sun in the bright and still day, looking out on the not-quite-suburban, not-quite-rural neighborhood of rolling hills and little brushstrokes of houses that lay just a handful of miles outside West Memphis.

"Well," he said to the red and orange parrot perched stiffly on his shoulder, using a short three-word phrase to describe all the years of waiting and all storms raging in his stomach, "this is it."

The parrot squawked in agreement, and the two walked on down the road. Joseph's gait was diffident and self-conscious, and he stopped every thirty feet or so and looked around him, relating to his avian associate some memory or another triggered by an old broken fence, or a tire swing tied to the sturdy arm of an oak, or a rusty street sign. "I remember the night that happened," he said, indicating in the distance a great tree that had been split in two with impossible symmetry, and now lay like an open clam shell. "There was this huge storm that night, Miguel. Dad had called us all inside, and the wind was so loud that I had put a pillow over my ears to try and drown it out, but I couldn't help watching the rain from my window. Out in the field I suddenly saw this bright light and then heard like a cracking noise. You wouldn't believe how loud it was, even over all the wind and so far away. That's my house right over there, across the field and behind those trees. We could stop by there…"

The bird let out its shrill call.

"Yeah, you're right. Maybe later." It was midsummer, and humid. Joseph rolled the sleeves of his shirt up as he walked, dragging his toes playfully in the dirt. Though he was far from a foreigner, the sum of his parts—his coal black hair, pale face, and deep-set, shining blue eyes; his white naval cap and shirt; the three medals that jingled proudly on his breast; the tattered dungarees that he had to wear because he had stained his pristine uniform slacks when he dropped cheery pie on them at a rundown diner in Nashville; the overconfident manner and savagely orange tail of the parrot who surveyed the land from atop his shoulder—added up to a creature who looked nearly as out of place as Joseph had actually felt almost every day since he first left on that funny afternoon in August two years ago.

As they neared their destination, Joseph began to quicken his pace, feverishly mouthing words to himself and gesturing with his hands as though he were talking to someone. Though, as much as his pace had increased, his direction had rambled double; he was walking in strange zigzags, circling several times around mailboxes, tracing figure-eights between trees, too lost in his own thoughts and too unprepared to care much about reaching the target of his pilgrimage in haste. He would find himself there eventually, he knew. There was no question about that; he had long ago crossed the proverbial Rubicon, but, like he imagined Caesar himself had, he was only now seriously considering the implications of his decision, wondering if he had made the right choice.

Miguel let out a squawk.

"Huh?" said Joseph, looking up and shaking his head. He was standing in the front yard of a small, neat one-story house with a garden behind the kitchen and a swinging bench on the porch. "Oh," he said. "Looks like we're here, Miguel."

Squawk! "We're here," the bird echoed into Joseph's ear.

He walked up the steps to the front door and, his mouth switching from brimming grin to nervous frown and back, composed himself, knocked firmly on the door, and waited.

The world had never seemed so still before, so silent.

Moments passed like hours stretched out in the mad and trembling bubble of doubt that lay on the floor of Joseph's stomach, until just at the point of bursting, the door inched open with a click unheard by Joseph's ringing ears, and his blurry vision was filled with the clear image of a young girl.

Relief washed over him like a warm bath. She had not changed much. She was still the tiny, mousy, somewhat tomboyish girl in overalls that he had known. She still pulled her fiery hair back into a ponytail. She still had the same green eyes, the same soft lips, the same energetic smile. She was still Becky Brooks, his old best friend.

"Oh my God, Joe!" There was a rattling crash as the tin tray she had been holding hit the floor, and then Joseph was holding her up in his arms, her face pressed hard into his shoulder. She let go. "You're back!" she said, dabbing the corners of her eyes, and stepping back to look at her friend.

He smiled. "I'm back."

"Oh, Joe. I knew you'd come back. When I heard the war was over I waited, but when no one heard from you we all got worried, and…"

"I know; I'm sorry."

"Joe, you were so young to go off."

"I still feel young, Becky," he said. Back when military service was still almost universally thought of as a great American pastime, second cousin to baseball and jazz music, Joseph was worried that the war would end before he came of age, and so, along with hundreds of restless and gung-ho boys of the era, lied to the recruiter and joined the ranks of his fellow Americans. He was sixteen.

"But you look so old, Joe."

He was eighteen now. "I've always looked old for my age."

"Old for my age!" Miguel spouted from Joseph's shoulder.

"Oh, sorry! Becky, this is Miguel. I, uh, found him somewhere down in the Solomon Islands. He was just a little hatchling, and his mother had died—casualty of war. Anyway, he's kept me company ever since."

Becky giggled. "Nice to meet you, Miguel."

"Nice to meet you!" said Miguel.

"Come in, you two, come in!"

Joseph smiled and stepped inside. Miguel fluttered off his shoulder and landed comfortably on top of an antique cabinet next to the TV. His heart pounded his chest like a hammer. It was difficult to concentrate on anything else."Thanks. So, um, how're you parents doing?"

"Oh, they're doing well enough. Dad is working down at Dawson's now, you know, and I think Mom is—"

And that's when he did it. He took hold of his friend's waist, drew her face forward by the guidance of a pair of tender fingers on her cheek and jaw, and pressed his lips into her own, feeling those expressive valleys and peaks move against his, the sweet taste and shape, the sharp intake of breath!

During the two years that he had spent shoved into sweaty cabins and heavy jungles, the months of teeth-grinding routine, the boredom of those hot and flat days at sea, and the absolute terror and confusion of the three actual battles that he had been in, one thing had gotten him through, had been his symbol of what waited for him, the personification of everything he felt he was fighting for—Rebecca Brooks. It happened slowly, and unexpectedly, beginning as a caterpillar of a thought, nothing more than a sort of longing to see an old friend. But as the days, weeks, and months went on, and that thought entered its cocoon and began its lepidopteral change, as he found himself thinking of her more and more, wishing he could see her, thinking of how great a story this or that event would make to tell her. Without his really knowing it she became his comfort, as a photograph folded into fourths and placed neatly into his shirt pocket as the bombshells rang overheard, and his hope as he lay in bed and played out a thousand hypothetical conversations, chance meetings, and impossible unions of their paths.

She pulled away slowly, and looked at her old friend.

"I'm sorry," Joseph said. "I probably shouldn't have done that. Wow. I'm really sorry. Maybe I should just go. Jeeze." He was fumbling around the room, searching for something, probably Miguel.

"That might be best," Becky said slowly.

"Yeah, okay. Wow." Joseph was now backing up towards the door, and opening it behind him. "Sorry about that. I really am." He turned to leave, and put one foot out the door.

"Uh! Well, you don't have to go," Becky said quickly, doubtfully, swallowing hard. She paused. "I mean… you could stay if you wanted."

Joseph turned back towards her. "Staying is okay." He laughed.

She walked towards her Joe, in his half-military issued get-up and placed her hand between his arm and his side, closing the door. "Staying is good," she said, looking straight into his eyes and smiling. She raised herself up on her toes and kissed him.

They say that actions speak louder than words. Joseph had never before realized the abstract truth in this more than on that quiet summer evening, up late on her couch, neither speaking, but each expressing adoration in a thousand soft, wordless gestures. Nothing sexual; only simple, warm, affectionate. Her fingers danced an affectionate fandango across his arms and neck, filling him with a relaxing contentment like warm tea as he took in deep breaths of the saccharine air in that tiny, charming, family home which he loved as much as wanted to be a part of it.

There were also the secret moments, like when they breathed in identical rhythms, their chests heaving and falling in soft unison, a moment so bizarre that it could never be mentioned to anyone, let along to each other—a moment so fragile that even thinking about it yourself too firmly could cause the structure to crumble.

Should I tell her? Joseph wondered. He knew he should, but how could he? How could he merely speak the words, now, when even a look into her eyes, a lazy smile, and a hand laid on her open palm screams them into a burning air? Why would he stumble over the words, idiot-like, all empty and ridiculous, now?

This is what it feels like, he thought. This is what it feels like… to be alive.

"Does everyone know?" he said.

"Know what, Joe?"

"That they're alive, Becky. Does everyone know that they're alive?"

She laughed. "What? Well, I guess so."

He kissed her forehead. "Good," he said. "I'm glad." And every day, every moment, of the last two years faded away in the soft irradiance of evening.