Beyond Silence

A story about brotherhood, late night phone calls, and the distance we'll go to make sure we don't lose another one.

Eric Brown
February 05, 2025

An empty divided highway at night, illuminated by a series of streetlights that fade into the darkness. The wet pavement reflects the light, creating a haunting and solitary atmosphere. The road stretches toward a distant vanishing point where the lights become tiny dots in the darkness.

Four hours of empty highway ahead. Some calls you answer without hesitation, some drives you make without question. Because brotherhood doesn't end when the war does. Photo by Josh Redd on Unsplash

The text from Shelby comes at 2 AM: "You up?"

After Afghanistan, we all know what those late-night messages mean. I'm already pulling on my boots before I hit "call."

He picks up on the first ring. Just breathing at first, heavy and uneven. We spent eighteen months together in the mountains, analyzing signals, watching each other's backs. I know his breathing patterns better than my own.

"Can't sleep again?" I ask, grabbing my keys.

"Started that new warehouse job," he says finally. His voice sounds thin, stretched. "Twelve-hour shifts. Thought maybe if I worked hard enough, got tired enough..."

He doesn't need to finish. We all try to outrun it somehow - through work, through exhaustion, through whatever might quiet the memories.

"I'm heading your way," I say, already in my car.

"You don't have to…"

"Remember that night in Tora Bora?" I cut him off. "When the equipment was acting up and we sat there for hours trying to find the right frequency?"

A weak laugh. "You kept making up ridiculous stories about what the signals might be. Alien invasions. Secret yeti colonies."

"Hey, those yetis were sending important messages. Not my fault you didn't believe me."

For a moment, I hear the old Shelby in his laugh. The one who could find humor in the darkest moments, who kept us sane during endless nights of monitoring frequencies and watching shadows.

"Been thinking too much lately," he says quietly. "About all of it. About Mac. About Jimmy. About..." He trails off, but I hear what he's not saying.

"Keep talking to me," I say as I drive. "I'm about four hours out."

"You don't have to come all this way, dude."

"Remember what you told me after that firefight near the ridge? When I was freaking out about the guy, I had to..." I swallow hard. "You said we carry this weight together. That got us through then. It gets us through now."

We talked through the night as I drove. About everything and nothing. About the nightmares and the good memories. About Mac's terrible jokes and Jimmy's nervous energy. About how the stars looked from those mountain peaks.

Dawn breaks as I pull up to his place. He's sitting on the front steps, looking worn but present. Sometimes, that's enough. Knowing someone would drive through the night to sit with you. Someone who knows your breathing patterns and your breaking points. Someone who was there then and is here now.

I sit beside him on the steps. The sun rises, painting the sky the same color as those peaks in the Hindu Kush. Different mountains, different battles now. But we still watch each other's backs.

We still carry the weight together.