My son was declared dead at exactly the second that I had the creative epiphany of my my life. A few minutes earlier, after his mother and I decided to disconnect the myriad machines keeping him alive, one to every organ in his body, we stood there, all of us, and waited for the last movement of his chest.
My daughter was the only person who spoke. She said to me, “Dad, I know you think you can’t make this movie. But you have to.
You have to finish it. It would destroy Hunter if you didn’t.” When his heart did finally stop, names and images of soldiers began tumbling in my head.
Scusa, Hardt, Kirk, Thomson, Martin, Mace, Griffin, Gallegos. I use their last names because that’s how soldiers refer to one another.
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