Jack Armstrong sat up in the secondhand hospital bed that had been wedged into a corner of the den in his home in Cleveland.
A father at nineteen, he and his wife, Lizzie, had conceived their second child when he’d been home on leave from the army.
Jack had been in the military for five years when the war in the Middle East started. He’d survived his first tour in Afghanistan
and earned a Purple Heart for taking one in the arm. After that he’d weathered several tours of duty in Iraq, one of which
included the destruction of his Humvee while he was still inside. That injury had won him his second Purple. And he had a
Bronze Star on top of that for rescuing three ambushed grunts from his unit and nearly getting killed in the process. After
all that, here he was, dying fast in his cheaply paneled den in Ohio’s Rust Belt.
His goal was simple: just hang on until Christmas. He sucked greedily on the oxygen coming from the line in his nose. The
converter that stayed in the corner of the small room was on maximum production, and Jack knew that one day soon it would be turned off because he’d be dead. Before Thanksgiving he was certain he could last another month. Now
Jack was not sure he could make another day.
