“I can’t do it.”

“Of course, you can.”

“No, Raja I can’t,” said Denny, punctuating his point with a carving chisel.

Raja put up both hands and backed away into the tool wall that extended the length of Denny’s studio.

“Why not? Look, I get it. Whistling is a cheesy talent and most people don’t consider it music. Maybe you could do it with a backup band.”

Denny stared at him, stone-faced.

“Listen, my friend, it’s established. You’re a professional artist now. Your real talent is this.” Raja pointed to the carved sculpture on the workbench. “But, people need to see your joie de vivre, your fun side. Besides, you’re good at whistling.”

“Were,” said Denny. “Past tense. I haven’t whistled in years.”

“It’s like riding a bike. You just need a little practice.”

Denny lowered the chisel, placing it beside his current project. Raja, a budding impresario, ran the area’s talent show and was always on the lookout for wannabe stars. He had come a long way from the silent son of the town’s sole refugee family. The two had always been friends but, at the moment, Denny was finding him wearing.

He shook his head. Raja sighed.

“You have plenty of time. At least think about it, okay?”

“Sure,” Denny replied.

Raja nodded and turned to leave. He turned back and started to speak, but the look on Denny’s face made him stop. He paused, opened and closed his mouth again, then left the workshop.

Denny gulped water from the cup on his workbench. He hated undeserved praise as much as he hated arguments. Taking a breath, he turned his attention to the chunk of wood he was carving. He leaned on his left forearm and peered at the visible outlines of a fallen soldier, head resting on outstretched arms, embedded in the wood. He had yet to carve the sleeping face, get his old friend – long gone – clear in his mind, but he knew he could do it. Raja had triggered memories he preferred forgetting. Think about it, indeed.

He pulled his stool nearer and sat to press his palms against his eyes. Dropping his hands, he waited for his vision to clear, listening to the birds outside. He needed air.

Denny walked to the door, opened it, and stepped outside. His eyes went to the nest in the tree outside and the sun blinded him. When his vision cleared, he was standing in the jungle of Vietnam.

He spun around. His workshop was gone. He looked down at his work clothes and boots. He reached into his pocket and fingered his old whittling knife. Silence in the jungle meant danger. For the first time since leaving this place, Denny pursed his lips and blew; the only sound a ragged whoosh. The trees quivered and edged forward.

The skin on the back of Denny’s neck itched and a rivulet of sweat ran down his spine. He backpedaled, felt something sharp and pointed just above his waist, and lurched forward. Before he could turn to look, the pointy thing poked him again. He took a step and stopped as the trees opened a path before him.

A branch whipped down and lashed at him, spurring him onward. Whenever he slowed, another tree would smack him across the back. He felt welts raise on his shoulders but he kept walking.

Until he tripped and fell, hitting his head on a large root that blocked his way. A cacophany of hissing exploded above him. Denny pushed himself to his feet and looked up. Vultures. Three of them perched in the trees staring at him. Hissing at one another. Waiting.

The pointy thing poked him. He looked down and stepped over the roots, moving to the side of the trail. Vines dropped from the trees onto his shoulders, snaked across them, and pulled him back to the center of the path.

The trail grew darker and hotter. His sopping shirt stuck to his back. His head pounded. Water. He’d kill for water if he could remain upright. He stumbled into a tree blocking his way. He moved left into another tree. He moved right. More trees.

I’m going to die right here.

A hiss, like a whisper, called to him. Looking up, he watched the biggest vulture raise a wing and point a primary feather to the right.

“I can’t. The trees,” Denny said.

The littlest vulture hissed and the trees moved.

Denny walked into the clearing and dropped to his knees.

“Didn’t you bring a canteen, man?”

Sucking in air, Denny stared while tears welled wasting precious water reserves.

Jake. Tattered boots. Shredded fatigues. Boonie cap, stiff with grey, dried blood. The gaping hole in the brim aligned with the one where his forehead used to be. As he looked at the damage lower down, Denny realized Jake had been mauled by scavengers. Possibly the vultures in the trees watching the scene below.

“You’re dead,” Denny said.

“Obviously. But, I have a canteen.”

It hung from the shoulder where an arm should be. Denny shuddered.

“It’s empty,” he whispered.

“Nah. I filled it before you got here. But, you’ll never know until you get up off your dead butt and properly greet a brother.”

“Or you could walk over here and give a man a hand.”

Jake cocked his head to the side.

“Well, I only have the one, but it’s yours for the asking. Are you inviting me over?

Denny thought a moment.

“Do I need to? Are you a vampire?”

Jake guffawed, his vocal explosion startling the vultures off their branches and into the sky. He stepped into the clearing, dragging his left leg a bit.

Denny got to his feet to stagger toward his friend.

“No, man, stop. I can’t watch you walk.”

“No worries, bro. It’s my reality, not yours.”

Jake stretched out his right hand and Denny took it. Icy cold, barely able to squeeze, Denny shivered and backed off on his grip.

“Sorry, bro, I can’t generate any heat.”

“It’s not every day I shake hands with a dead guy.”

“Point taken. You want some of this water?” Jake nodded to his left shoulder.

Denny reached out and took the canteen off the bone. He opened it and drank deeply trusting the man before him, just as he’d always done.

“Thanks,” he said, handing back the canteen.

“Keep it. You should always have water.”

Denny frowned.

“True. Why are you here, Jake?”

“I don’t know. Why am I here?”

Denny shivered.

“You’re asking me?”

“Who else would know?”

Denny backed away, staring at the corpse of his best friend. He felt that sharp, pointy thing press into his spine. He stepped forward.

“I killed you, man,” he whispered.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I whistled at you.”

“A whistle can’t kill anyone, bro.”

“It told the VC where you were.”

“No, it didn’t. It told them where you were.”

Denny sucked air. His vision went black, he fell to his knees.

The vultures hissed above him, a medley of noise, growing louder. The trees bent over him, limbs plucked at his shirt.

Vines snapped at him, whipped his skin.

Ripping cloth, popping buttons. Flapping wings, claws like daggers.

He bled.

Felt the blades pierce his skin. Felt the insects feast on his open sores. Felt their eggs hatch.

He screamed, his mouth open wide, no sound emerging.

Lungs burning, he took a breath. No inhale, only exhale.

He barely heard Jake’s advice but it wafted through his head like the murmured commands of a funeral honor guard.

“Let go. You know the truth.”

Denny forced his eyes open. Looked across the clearing at Jake, on his knees, fully formed, tears streaming down his face, hand raised in supplication. Looked down at his own broken body, the missing left arm, the protruding tibia and fibula, the battered clothing.

He raised his damaged right arm, held it out, palm facing forward to stop the truth.

“But, I have a life, memories, love, respect.”

“Do you?

Denny opened his mouth, felt his jaw break. He screamed, “Yes!”

Silence.

He heard a whistle.

“Denny? Denny, wake up. Wake up, man.”

Fists thumping on his chest. Hands grasped his shoulders, pushed then pulled.

He flailed out, hitting flesh. The voice, louder, cried out.

“Ow, Denny, stop. It’s me, Raja. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Denny knew he was awake, felt his heartbeat slow then his breathing. Felt the hardness beneath him; the cold chilling his bones. Felt the reality of the man kneeling beside him.

He reached out and felt the warmth of the hand that held his.

“It’s okay, Raja. I’m here.”

He opened his eyes to the ceiling above him, his workbench and stool. He breathed in the smell of wood, oil, and mineral spirits. He was home. Denny felt his shirt. It was whole. He would look later, but he knew there would be no blemish on his body. Well, maybe a bruise from falling off the stool.

He looked at his neighbor, his friend, and smiled.

“What brought you back?

“An apology. I pushed. I know better. Are you ready to sit up?”

“I think so.”

Raja stood and pulled Denny to a sitting position. He let go and turned to right the stool and put it nearer the workbench.

“What do you think? Next stop, the stool?” Raja asked.

“Yup. Let’s see if I can do it without help.

Denny twisted around to his knees and, gripping the workbench for support, got to his feet. He sat on the stool.

“Apology accepted. I can’t enter your talent show, but, no hard feelings.”

“No hard feelings. I will push you to get your latest piece done for the art fair, though,” Raja replied, pointing at the workbench.

“That I can do,” Denny said.

“You do know you still have it. The whistling. Maybe not as tuneful as I’ve heard you blow. But, it was a clarion call. It pierced my soul.”

Denny sat, silent.

“I feel like I should apologize again,” said Raja.

Looking up, Denny smiled at him and shook his head. He stood up and put out a hand.

“Thanks for rescuing me.

Raja frowned.

“From what?”

“When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.

He ushered his friend out the door and walked back to the workbench. It was time to clean up. Denny had a sudden urge to call Dr. Ambrose at the VA hospital. Make an appointment. Talk about guilt and memories.

He vacuumed the nonexistent detritus on the floor, swept the shavings and sawdust from his power tools, and took the soft brush to his workbench to clean the tabletop. He looked at the wood on the bench.

A chill shuddered through him and he felt his blood run cold.

Instead of the original, recumbent figure, the soldier now lay in pieces on the beginnings of the jungle floor. Denny looked at his sketch. His eyes followed the contours of the foliage he needed to carve, how the vines would embrace torn limbs and sprout through the torso. He ran his finger across the trees, branches pointed and bare, standing guard over the dead man’s remains. His eyes returned to the carving.

Denny sat late into the night staring at the soldier’s face.