⚠️ Warning ⚠️
⚠️📜 The following content may describe events
that took place during the Vietnam War
in the year 1964 🇻🇳🪖.
📚 The descriptions are historically accurate,
but they should not be taken as
a precise historical guide.
🏙️ It also contains depictions of
sensitive issues regarding society in
Massachusetts during the 1960s 🕰️.
🚫 The author does not intend to
sensationalize these matters.
✍️ Everything narrated here is fiction 🎭,
and reader discretion is advised 🔎.
📝 Author's Note 📝
😮💨 Wow, my God, how hard it is
to come back, huh?
⏳ It's taken me quite a while to
work on this because, well… I'm not
even going to say why anymore.
😅 So yeah, here you go… I guess this is
the joke, right?
🙏 You should be thankful I still care
enough to keep this going.
_____________________________________________________
July 4, 1964
Qui Nhon Base, Vietnam
The day had barely begun, yet the workshop had
been in motion for hours. Calling it a workshop
was generous, truth be told.
Just two sheet-metal roofs, makeshift tables,
and piles of parts coated in dust and oil.
More than a repair site, it looked like a graveyard of steel.
A convoy was being readied in a rush. Soldiers
ran with their rifles toward the backs of the trucks;
they had to head out to a stretch of road where another
unit had been ambushed hours earlier.
Two vehicles stood open, their engines exposed.
The air trembled with labor: wrenches striking steel,
covers clanging down, parts dragged across the floor.
The steady hum of generators filled every space
where silence might once have lived.
And above all of it, the heat.
The air was thick, heavy, saturated with diesel
and burnt oil. The dark, slick floor gleamed
with spilled fluids. No one walked.
They moved back and forth without stopping.
Another truck had arrived, towed in.
Fourteen men worked over it, dismantling it
section by section. The engine was finished;
they were not trying to repair it.
They were searching only for what could still serve:
filters, lines, pumps—anything to keep the others alive.
Every minute mattered.
Bent over an engine block, Collin worked
with hands black to the wrists.
The metal burned even beneath
the shade of the roof.
Then someone shouted.
"Jesus Christ!… My God!…"
The work stopped for a second.
A few yards from the workshop, a UH-1
was descending, kicking up a cloud of
dust and loose papers. It hit the ground
hard, the rotor lashing the air
with each rotation.
Two medics ran toward the hatch
before the helicopter had even steadied.
They pulled out the first stretcher.
The man did not move.
Then the second.
Neither did he.
The third was moving.
The soldier strapped to it writhed
against the restraints, trying to sit up.
He kept shouting something over and over,
but the roar of the rotor swallowed
every word.
His right arm was intact.
His left arm vanished beneath a thick bandage,
soaked through and dark. The leg on that
same side ended in a wrapped stump
just above the knee.
His mouth opened and closed in panic,
searching for air, searching for someone.
Then one word managed to break free.
"Forgive me!… God, forgive me… Mom…
I didn't mean to…"
The helicopter swallowed his cries.
No one spoke.
The rotor kept turning.
Collin didn't realize the engine had
fallen silent beneath his tools.
He kept staring a second longer
than he should have.
And he remembered what
Sergeant Miller had told him
a few days before coming here.
The sergeant's office was functional,
papers neatly arranged, traces of
tobacco along the window ledge,
its scent thick in the air.
The sergeant entered first. He crossed
to the desk, took his seat, and only
then looked up.
"Sit down, McKenzie."
Collin obeyed.
The sergeant did not speak at once.
He reviewed two sheets on the desk,
then addressed the young man
with a certain firmness.
"I've got two things for you. First, a letter
from your mother." He held it out.
Collin took it without opening it.
"Second," the sergeant continued,
"it's an order. This morning three convoys
were ambushed up north. The forward
base is short on men. They need
mechanics. Fast and skilled."
He paused.
"I was ordered to send nine men.
You're on the list, McKenzie."
Collin nodded. "Yes, sir."
The sergeant watched him for a moment
longer than necessary.
"Don't be a burden to the others. Out there,
it's the war everyone fears. You'll need
courage… in the heat, in the exhaustion,
whether you're fixing engines or driving
a convoy."
He paused slightly.
"And listen carefully: follow orders. Always.
Even when you think it's not the right
moment… even when it doesn't feel
right. Your job is to obey."
He leaned against the desk.
"Did your father ever talk to you about
Korea, McKenzie?"
"No, sir. He doesn't usually speak about it…"
"Good," the sergeant replied. "Then listen."
He fell silent for a moment and looked away.
"Do you remember Dennis? My oldest son.
He turns sixteen this October sixth."
He looked back at him. For an instant, his expression
tightened, as if he were about to say something more.
"Do your job… and you'll be able to go back home."
His voice lowered, but it grew firmer. "Don't try to
be brave. Don't try to be a hero. I don't want to have
to explain anything to your father."
He straightened up. "Keep the vehicles moving. If the
trucks move, the men live. That's as simple as it gets."
Collin nodded. "Yes, sir." "Good. Get out of my office."
Collin stood and walked toward the door.
"McKenzie."
He stopped. The sergeant didn't raise his voice. When he
spoke, there was something weary in it. "May God… be
with you."
The memory of the warning made him understand he could
not stop: orders are carried out, even when it does not
seem like the right moment.
"McKenzie, we've got it open!"
The helicopter was already unloading the last of the
stretchers. Collin turned back to the engine, slid his
hand into the compartment, and tried the emergency
ignition.
Nothing. He looked closer. The block was cracked. The
fuel system had collapsed. There was no time to save it.
He straightened up. "Leave it!" he shouted. "This one's
not starting."
One of the mechanics shook his head. "We can change the
line. We can still save it."
"No. We've already lost too much time." He pointed at
the other convoy vehicles lined up ahead: some riddled
with shrapnel, others coated in dust and dried blood.
"We need at least three trucks running before nightfall.
Move to the next one. This one's for parts."
There was a second of hesitation. Then they moved.
Tools lifted. Crates dragged. The group shifted to the
next vehicle without argument. The noise filled the
area again. Behind them, the helicopter lifted off.
The hot wind stirred the dust around the dead truck.
Collin did not look at it. He kept his eyes on his
work, focused on loosening the pressure bolts to
inspect other components. He was so concentrated he
did not notice more stretchers still arriving, more
young men like him pleading for their mothers.
It was not that he didn't hear them; he did. But he
kept his gaze fixed on the metal, forcing himself to
think only of the engine and of his hands. Because as
long as the work did not stop, neither would the
questions… as if looking beyond the engine would
mean admitting why he was there, why he chose
engines instead of rifles.
While the sun was rising in Vietnam, the night of
July 3rd was ending in Massachusetts. Dorothy and
María walked along the damp streets, moving away
from the house. The sound of their steps blended
with the water still dripping from the rooftops.
After a few yards, Dorothy spoke with bright
enthusiasm. "I told you! See? It was only a matter
of time. Let me talk to Eric— I'm sure he can
help you."
María looked at her, uneasy. "Dorothy… I'm
sorry. I know you care about me, truly. But… why
did you have to say that? Why did you tell him?"
Dorothy sighed. "I know it was a little
awkward. But look at the bright side. You could
get a better job. Something quieter, without having"
to strain yourself or deal with
customers all day."
"That's not it," María replied softly. "You know
that's not it." She hesitated for a moment. "If I
were just a little whiter… maybe I'd go unnoticed."
Dorothy stopped at once. "Hey. Your skin is
beautiful. Don't ever say that about yourself,
okay? I just want to help you, María. Sometimes
people want to help… you have to let them."
María lowered her gaze. "All right."
Dorothy looked around. "We'd better take a
taxi. The boys had already been drinking quite
a bit. You didn't have much, did you?"
"No. But I'd rather not walk."
They took a taxi toward the house where María
was staying. It was a shared home—an old house
where a woman rented out rooms to workers and
students. The place was a bit far from the
restaurant.
When they arrived, they went upstairs in silence.
María opened the door to her room, and both of
them sat down on the bed.
Dorothy spoke first. Her hands shifted
restlessly over her knees. "Hey… I'm sorry I
didn't tell you everything before. I just
thought… well, I'm an idiot."
María took a moment to answer. Her eyes were
fixed on the floor. "No, no," she finally
interrupted. "I'm the ungrateful one. You just
want to help me."
Dorothy shook her head with a shy smile,
though her shoulders remained tense. "You don't
have to say that. And you don't have to pretend
everything was fine. I know it was awkward… but
really, they're good people."
She paused, searching for words. "Just… don't
judge them too harshly. They don't mean any
harm. There are many things people simply
don't understand."
María barely nodded, as if the words were
reaching her from very far away. "In fact…
there are things I don't understand either."
She shrugged without lifting her gaze.
"We've only been here a couple of years. We're
still learning how things work. Sometimes you
just repeat what you've heard your whole life
without thinking about it."
Dorothy studied her closely. María seemed
distant, as if she weren't entirely there. She
leaned a little toward her. "I've noticed you've
been sad these past few days. Like… far away. Is
something wrong? Do you want to talk?"
María remained silent for a few seconds, her
hands clasped together, fingers tight. "I don't
want to admit it… but I miss my family."
Dorothy frowned. "What? I'm sorry… maybe I've
been pushing you too hard." Her expression
shifted, hardening for a moment. "Leroy should've
kept his mouth shut. He made our lives harder."
She let out an irritated breath, as if the memory
still weighed on her. Tears began to fall down
María's face, and she didn't try to wipe them
away. "No… that's not it."
Dorothy moved closer and gently dried her
face. "María, I'm sorry. Sometimes I forget that
you… need me more than I need you, and that
breaks my heart. I feel like I ruined your life.
I just want to help you," she said, her voice
unsteady.
María took a deep breath, but her gaze stayed
distant, fixed on something empty. "Maybe they
threw me out of the house. Maybe my father hit
me. Maybe he said I was no longer his daughter…
but I still can't believe he said such horrible
things about me."
Her voice broke. "And despite everything… I miss
them. My brothers. My mom. My dad. Even though
I hate them too."
She blinked several times, as if trying to
return to the present. "Tell me, Dory… do you
think it would be better if I went back to
Texas?"
Dorothy pulled her into a tight embrace.
María continued, almost in a whisper, her
body stiff in her arms. "I made it this far
because of you. But… I wish I could feel like
I earn things on my own. I wish I could feel
like I did it alone. That the job is mine…
that I deserve it."
She lowered her gaze. "Because right now… I
feel completely useless." Her voice became
barely audible. "I don't tell you this, but
I want to leave this world… I wish I could
stop crying, I wish I didn't feel this way…"
Yet Dorothy, as if trying to halt that
spiral of thoughts, took her hands and guided
her down onto the bed. Her fingers closed
firmly around María's, as though she feared
she might drift back into her own doubts.
She leaned in just enough for María to feel
her warmth and breath close to her skin.
"Say it again," she whispered. "How do you
feel?"
María hesitated. "I feel alone."
Dorothy squeezed her hands. "I'm here."
"I feel useless."
Dorothy held her gaze. "Are you a woman
worth admiring?"
María swallowed. "I feel like an idiot."
The rain began to patter again against the
window. The room was wrapped in that steady
sound, as if the world had been left outside.
Dorothy turned her head slightly toward
the closed door, almost by reflex, then
looked back at her. María slowly moved
closer. Her breath trembled. Dorothy did
not pull away. Their lips met.
It was a restrained, careful kiss, as though
both were measuring the weight of the
gesture.
The brush of their bodies was gentle. María
looked at Dorothy, and with a trace of fear
began to unbutton her blouse, sighing with
contained desire. Warmth spread slowly from
her chest down to the hands that still
remained entwined.
When they parted slightly, Dorothy spoke
softly. "Do you know what I like most about
you, María? You always tell the truth…
even when it hurts." She paused, searching
for the right words. "But you don't see
everything you are. You're beautiful,
María. You're hardworking. And everything
you have, you built on your own. I didn't
work for you… it was only you."
Her thumbs brushed against María's cheeks.
"Those three things you said aren't what you
are. They're things you were made to believe."
"Dory…" María murmured.
Dorothy kissed her again, this time with
less hesitation. María let out the breath
she had been holding and placed her hands
against her back; she could not lie to
herself, her body wanted her.
There was no rush. Only a need to move
slowly, as if the brush of their bodies
were searching for something deeper than
skin. Dorothy rested her forehead
against hers.
"I'm going to stay here with you for a
while," she murmured. "And I need you to
understand something. I don't care what
people think. I'll always be there…
because you're more than a friend to me
now."
Her eyes grew moist. "If my family knew
how I feel about you… they'd probably
shut the door on me too."
Rain struck the window harder. "For now,
all we have is this. Us. Not what they
think." She lowered her voice even more.
"Look at me, María… it's hard for me
to say it." She drew in a deep breath.
"I can't say it when I look at you… I
can't even say it in secret…"
Her fingers trembled slightly as she
brushed a lock of hair away from
María's face. "María… I love you."
She didn't say it loudly. It was almost a
thread of sound, meant only for María.
The words came out, but they carried a
wound behind them. "I'm dying for you…
and everything is so hard…"
She closed her eyes for a moment before
continuing. "Tell me something. Forget
college, your family, work… everything.
What is it that you want?"
María didn't think. "I want… you to
stay with me."
Dorothy smiled faintly. "Then that's
what I'll do. Tonight you don't have to
think about anything else."
Between slow kisses and touches searching
for silent comfort, they took refuge in
each other. Beneath the blanket, they
found a closeness, as if simple contact
were enough to hold up what outside
could not be spoken.
The room fell quiet, broken only by the
rain and the murmur of their breathing,
slowly falling into the same rhythm.
That night they were only that, two
women wanting each other with all
their strength.
And somewhere between sleep and
darkness, a strange feeling crossed
María's mind. Like a distant voice,
barely a whisper:
"Time is drawing near. Paths are
beginning to cross. The river carries
silver between its stones, and the
sunlight melts the snow that drags
tomorrow's whispers."
As if it were an omen, as if something
unseen had torn through her sleep, a
storm of images pierced her. Streets
she did not recognize. Unknown faces.
Doors slamming shut with violence.
People running without looking back.
Overlapping voices, cries swallowed
by the wind. And a man with a sword…
The force of the visions jerked María awake.
For a moment she did not know where she was.
Then she remembered the room, the rain, that
fragile moment. Dorothy was no longer there.
On the table, there was a letter. In it,
Dorothy explained she had to rush back to
work, but would return for her. She also
reminded her of Eric's number and address.
At the end, in a postscript, it read: "Wait
for me a little longer, María. Let me help
you first as your friend… and then we'll see
about everything else."
María held the letter for a few seconds.
She felt a little calmer. After reading it,
she checked the clock: seven thirty. She
had barely half an hour left. She got ready
quickly. She did her makeup with care,
though without lingering. This time she did
not carry yesterday's sadness with her.
Something inside felt lighter. Maybe the
conversation with Dorothy. Maybe the
idea of not being completely alone.
That gave her strength to endure at least a
few more weeks. When she arrived at the
restaurant, the manager was already there.
She greeted her briefly, but watched her
closely as she tied her apron.
"María."
The young woman turned.
"When I tell you to smile, I don't mean come
in like you just won the lottery. What's
gotten into you?"
María shook her head, smiling. "Nothing,
ma'am. I'm just in a good mood."
The manager studied her for a few seconds
more. "A good mood?" she repeated. "Well,
I like that. Now get to work."
María answered eagerly. "Yes, ma'am."
"Of course. Yesterday you were dragging
your feet, and today you're practically
cheerful. That doesn't happen for nothing."
María stayed quiet, still wearing a
faint smile. Thinking about the future.
"When I have enough, maybe I'll buy a law
book. Just to talk a little. Enough to
laugh about something the students
understand. Maybe we'll eat together at
another restaurant. Buy new clothes.
Imagine something different."
Then she stopped. Her smile faded
slightly. Even if it didn't seem wrong,
the truth was her doubts about herself
forced her to pause. After all, it was
only a dream. Nothing more.
And yet, something inside her insisted
it mattered. She didn't know why. She
simply felt it.
"Why did I dream of a church in ashes?"