Knife (9780698185623) by Ross Ritchell

burn up in the sky, listening to the aircrafts shrieking like wraiths.
    â€œSo I’m disgusting for watching that?” Hagan followed Massey into the light. “It’s education.” Hagan kept his bag shouldered. He ran his thumbs across the nylon straps. “Every dad sees it. Donna’s full of shit. The nurses clean it up.”
    â€œIt’s educational, you mean,” Massey said, dropping his bag on the concrete. “And regardless, you’re sick, that’s sick, and you’re making me sick.”
    Hagan slammed his bag on the floor. Dust fanned out and clung to his pants.
    â€œEducational? What the hell’s that? Whatever. It’s the miracle of life, Espresso. Everyone knows that.”
    Shaw laughed. He pointed at Hagan.
    â€œThere. Espresso was good. End on that.” Massey had dark skin, so the men got clever with him. Hagan, especially, liked it. He probably wrote down good ones that came to him while he was alone in his room. Coffee and bean relations were common. Burrito. Beaner. Java. Jo. Java-Jo. Tobacco-Jo. Cocoa-Jo. Cocoa Puff. Fudge. Brownie. Fudge brownie. “The birth shit’s a stretch. This place doesn’t smell like birth shit, which is probably no different than my shit or your shit, or anyone else’s shit. PBS or not, giving birth or not. It just smells like shit. No one wants to think of birth shit, you animal. Especially not Donna.”
    â€œWhy not? He’s the only one that’s seen it. Live show, at least.”
    â€œHog. Think about it. He just left his daughters and wife. His ladies. He’s got a son in the oven. You think he wants to think of that now? More than that. You think he wants you, or any of us, talking about Mirna like that? Thinking about Mirna like that?”
    Hagan nodded and looked at the ground. He lifted his face, bounced his eyebrows, and smiled. “Espresso was good, wasn’t it?”
    He looked relieved after defending himself for so long. Proud.
    â€œI thought of that a while back.” He pointed behind himself with his thumb. “During poker.”
    â€œYou fell asleep during poker, you big idiot,” Dalonna said. He and Cooke dropped their bags next to the rest and Hagan shook his head at Dalonna. He mouthed,
I know you’ve seen it,
and kicked Dalonna’s bag. “And why the hell didn’t we carry our rucks instead of the hop bags? I think I’ve got one of Hog’s dead prostitutes in mine.”
    â€œYou bitching already, Donna?” Hagan asked.
    Dalonna spit at Hagan’s boots and Hagan looked at Cooke and brightened. Cooke was smiling. He had his head tilted back and took in a deep breath of air.
    The men were briefed about the air quality after each hop. Government reps would welcome them from the bird, tell them they were glad they made it home safe, and then shake their hands and let them know they’d receive compensation in the future if the air they just left carried carcinogens and they got sick. They meant if the men got cancer and died.
    Hagan smiled. “Nowhere else you’d rather be, huh?”
    Cooke shook his head.
    He looked comfortable, relieved. Happy.
    Home.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    T he squadron they were relieving lined the outside walls of the hangar. There were twelve men. Beards trimmed, shaved, or styled. Skin tanned. Their gear formed a protective perimeter around themselves and most of them sat with their backs propped against the wall, sleeping or staring at the ceiling. They looked deflated in their wrinkled fatigues and they sprawled limp across the floor like they were shrinking or trying to hide in their clothes. A few guys stood in tight circles with their arms crossed, toeing the floor with their boots. They’d leave in a few hours, after their bird gassed up and passed its checks. None of the men from the exiting or entering squadrons spoke to the other teams as the forklifts dropped