4.3.25 - The Book Keepers Dilemma pt 2

Parable 2: The Brown Spot

Father sat down at the makeshift workstation he had carved out between the kitchen counter and the baby’s playmat—a folding table wedged into the living room like an afterthought. His laptop whirred against the plastic surface. Next to it, a cup of iced coffee sweated slowly, pooling into a lazy ring. In the background, Blues Clues bounced on the screen, filling the room with cheerful nonsense as the baby clapped along.

He opened his final exam.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, unmoving.

There was no noise except for the cartoon, the hum of the refrigerator, and the distant clank of dishes being put away.

And then, without asking permission, his mind pulled away.

It was happening again.

At first, he thought it might just be the lingering hangover of a bad night's sleep—the same fragmented thoughts and cloudy mood that always followed insomnia. But it wasn’t just sleep-deprivation. It was something else. Something he hadn’t shaken for years.

A brown film coated his memory, and then his thoughts, and finally his eyes.

It started subtle. Like always. A flicker in his periphery. A grit behind his teeth. A heat that didn’t belong in Florida.

He was back in the desert.

Not metaphorically. Not in spirit. Not even in memory. The moment he blinked, he was there.

Sand crawled into the creases of his eyelids. It filled the cuffs of his pants. The taste of metal and sun baked his tongue.

The Brown Spot.

That’s what they had called it, half-jokingly. A place so dead even the maps didn’t bother. The kind of outpost where every shift dragged its boots across your soul.

He remembered the smell before anything else. The engine oil soaked into canvas seats. The acid of sweat drying on polyester. And the coppery tang of guns, even before they were drawn.

It was supposed to be simple. A procurement run.

A bag of bolts.

He had the clipboard. He had the requisition form. He had the coordinates. And for once, he had authorization to leave the base.

The Toyota was beige, like everything else out there. An unmarked, sun-bleached ghost of a truck, with cracked leather seats and sand trapped in every corner. It looked like it had been passed down through half a dozen teams before it got to them.

The driver chewed gum like it owed him money. The finance officer sat beside him, flipping nervously through spreadsheets. And the security detail kept adjusting his vest, like it didn’t quite fit right over his chest.

No one talked. Not really. No one wanted to name what they felt.

The town came into view like a mirage trying to keep itself together. Buildings leaned into each other like drunks. Laundry flapped from shattered windows. Every step forward felt like trespassing into someone else’s pain.

A man and a boy approached the truck. Thin, hollow-eyed. They didn’t wave. Just raised their hands, palms up.

“Water,” said the driver, through clenched teeth. He waved them off. The boy didn’t move.

Inside the store, a young woman greeted them in stilted English. She had eyes like polished stone. Empty and unreadable.

The bolts were already stacked on pallets. But something about the weight was wrong. Father knew bolts. He’d ordered thousands.

These weren’t bolts.

The woman said they were paid for already.

The finance officer frowned. “We didn’t authorize a wire.”

The driver interrupted. “Let’s not get cute. Let’s just finish the pickup.”

Father stepped closer to the stack. Heard the clink. The soft splash. The unmistakable sound of bottles shifting in sloshing liquid.

It was booze. Liquor. Illegally procured under military watch.

The moment stretched. A breath held between collapse and violence.

Then the boy outside moved.

Too fast. Too desperate. A hand reached for the side of the truck.

Three shots cracked the air. The boy fell.

One to the leg. Two to the stomach.

The woman screamed. The driver shouted something. The pallets were loaded. And no one—not one of them—asked if the boy was dead.

They just left.

They went back to base, filled out the paperwork, and Father received a commendation for efficiency.

He went back to his cot. Wrote the report. Filed the memory.

But the sound never left him.

The clinking of bottles. The splash of liquid. The final exhale of someone who had nothing left to give.

Father blinked.

A bang echoed from the hallway.

The baby’s hand slapped the floor. “Papa pa pa la di la di!”

Blues Clues was frozen on the screen. The video buffering, waiting. The ad looped again.

He reached for the remote.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay, I got it.”

And for now, the desert faded.

But it never really left.