There is a building in the South Bronx, a neighborhood known for its poverty and high crime rates. The house is a six-story walk-up made of red bricks with a faded sign above the entrance: Heaven Apartments. It’s not a place where you want to live; it’s a place where you end up.

  This Wednesday, a man in a suit and a well-groomed mustache was glancing up at the crumbling facade. He looked like a banker or perhaps a businessman who had lost his way. The mustachioed man took a last bite from the apple he was eating and tossed the core in a trash can. Meanwhile, a young African American woman emerged carrying two grocery bags filled with empties. Her expression suggested that she also would prefer to be somewhere else.

  –Well then, here we go, the man grumbled to himself, tightening his tie like it might protect him from what was coming.

  He entered the graffiti-stained building, keeping his hands clear of the railing as he walked up the stairs. The smell of urine and greasy food made his nose wrinkle, and he cringed at the sound of moaning. At the end of the ha on the sixth floor, he paused in front of apartment 6C and a filthy welcome mat: Homo Sweet Homo, someone had improved the text and design with a five-cent marker, adding a penis and testicles.

  He tried the doorbell. Broken. Grimacing, he knocked on the wood. For a few seconds there was nothing except for a thin, wavering note of a harmonica somewhere inside. It choked off. Then came the sound of shuffling footsteps, closer and closer, like a chained ghost struggling to advance. Finally, the deadbolt unlatched and the door creaked open, the chain still in place. Peering through the crack was a pair of bloodshot eyes.

  –What?

  The voice made the man's skin crawl. He cleared his throat.

  –Good afternoon, sir. Are you Mark Antonio Miller?

  –Who’s asking?

  –My name is Tom Jenkins, and I'm from the Department of Veterans Affairs.

  –So? I ain’t done nothing.

  –No, I… I’m just here to follow up on your case file. You know, your PTSD?

  –Ah, fuck that shit.

  The door slammed in Jenkins’ face. He sighed and knocked once more.

  –Mr. Miller, please. It’s about money!

  The door flew open with a bang. The smell of Old Spice mixed with sweat, weed, and cigarettes blasted out, and Jenkins fought the urge to step back.

  There he was. Mark Miller, standing in the doorway. Tall, rangy, in a dirty white T-shirt, boxers showing too much, and with sadly unattended feet. The wavy black hair hadn’t seen a comb for months, and his famously sharp jaw was now hidden beneath wild stubble. A pony-bead necklace spoke of a child, but the fresh gash across his cheekbone told another story, like he’d just crawled out of a bar fight.

  Which he probably had, Jenkins thought, spotting a tattered American flag over the man’s shoulder, its stars faded and stripes fraying at the edges, like the owner himself.

  Miller’s pinky traced the scruff on his chin. An ancient-looking ring gleamed on it — a gold band with a tiny snake biting its own tail. Pure gold?

  –Spit it out, man. I ain’t got all day.

  –A-alright, Jenkins stammered. He offered his hand, and Miller took it. An iron grip. Jenkins winced as they parted, rubbing his fingers as subtly as possible.

  –It’s just that the V.A. hasn’t heard from you in a while, and…

  –Guess ya don’t miss me much, huh?

  –Well, you were hard to miss back in the day. First in line at the recruiting office, then the Iraq deployment… and Mister Miller’s Musings… that was a thing, right? I even saw you on the Jimmy Decker show. You were a real playboy!

  Jenkins immediately regretted the last sentence as he got a look that said, One more word and you’re a stain on my floor.

  –I was a married man, for fuck’s sake, Miller muttered. –I had a wife…yeah, a life…

  He scoffed and lifted his tattooed arm to scratch the stubble again, bruises and track marks lining it. The heavy wristwatch with diamonds glittering around the bezel looked like it belonged to someone else — like a Wall Street banker, not a war-scarred recluse with blood on his cheek and piss in his stairwell. A relic from the past, Jenkins thought, recalling headlines from some years ago, when Mark Miller had been one of those handsome magazine darlings certain circles couldn’t get enough of. He also remembered his downfall:

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “Once the Face Everyone Loved — What Happened to Mark Miller?”

  “From Society Pages to Police Reports.”

  ”Divorce, Drugs and Deceit. The Truth About MM. Ex-wife speaks out.”

  Suddenly, the veteran doubled over, a hacking cough tearing from his chest like his lungs were trying to claw their way out. Jenkins flinched, instinctively reaching forward—then thought better of it.

  –Are... are you alright??

  Miller wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood. He didn’t seem surprised as he straightened up.

  –Just a cold. You got an I.D., mister V.A.?

  Shaken, Tom Jenkins searched his pockets.

  –Just a sec. Damn, I must’ve left it in the car. Mind if I come in anyway? We can talk about therapy…

  He got a grunt in response.

  –Listen, I had my fill of the V.A.’s support, thank ya kindly. I don’t need no handouts, no drug programs, no therapy.

  –It’s not a handout, it’s... um, a support system. We understand what you’ve been through…

  The black eyes went over Jenkins like a laser beam.

  –What the heck would a city slicker like you know about what I’ve been through?

  –I don’t claim to know what it was like on the ground, but I’ve seen my share of casualties and lost a few...

  –Not the same thing, I was there in the shit, getting my ass shot at every damn day!

  –I understand this might be hard…

  –Hard? Hard? Fourteen-hour patrols, eighty-pound rucksack on my fucking back, IEDs around every damn corner... That’s hard! And I ain’t giving up my guns or my weed. I earned the right to both, dammit!

  Jenkins blinked at the defensive tone. He was treading on a minefield.

  –I’m sorry. I may not have served, but I imagine that returning home isn’t easy. Finding your place in a world that continued to move forward while you were fighting can be isolating and disorienting.

  Miller crossed his arms over his chest. Dark ink against his skin. Semper Fi. A bald eagle. Barbed wire.

  –Fighting? Is that what you office rats call it?

  –It’s a term, yes.

  –No need to sugarcoat it, mister. I was killing or being killed. Ain’t no need to paint a pretty picture of rainbows and unicorns over it. I’ll leave that fancy stuff for my little girl.

  –Oh, you have a daughter?

  A smile flashed before vanishing just as quickly.

  –Yup. Samantha.

  –Well, consider this program a chance for her. A chance for her to connect with other kids whose parents served. Not just a support group for you, but a community for the child.

  –No thanks. Are we finished? I’m on OnlyFans, and ol’ Ten-Inch ain’t gonna film himself. Know what I’m talking about?

  Miller grinned, all sleaze and satisfaction.

  –Nine bucks an hour. Well then, happy trails, Mr. V.A. Bye.

  The door started to close. Jenkins’s foot was in the gap like it had a mission of its own.

  –Wait! You… you could have a service dog. They’re trained for PTSD, depression… and they’re good company too. If I could just come in, I’ll show you some brochures!

  –Are you telling me a Devil Dog needs a fucking service dog?

  –No, not at all... it’s just that–

  –Where are you from? The CIA? FBI? No way you’re just some social worker with them shiny shoes and fancy talk!

  Jenkins looked down at his polished brogues - one almost inside Miller’s home.

  –I’m sorry about the dog suggestion; it was ill-informed. If you let me in for just five minutes, we could…

  –Move them toes, or I’ll break ’em so bad you’ll be fetching your own service dog for help. Hear me?!

  Tom Jenkins hastily withdrew his foot.

  –Alright, alright. No need for violence!

  –Good. Chinga tu madre, puta.

  Mark Antonio Miller slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame, and the conversation was over.

  Jenkins stood in the smelly hallway, the bang still ringing in his ears. Puta. Well, thanks.

  The suit felt suffocating. He loosened his tie and started walking down the stairs. As he passed apartment 2D, an old lady stuck her silver-haired head out of her door.

  –I heard he turned you away, Mr…?

  Oh god. Not this too.

  He turned to face her.

  –Jenkins. Yes, I’m afraid he did.

  –Well, now. You aren’t the first one he’s turned away...and you won’t be the last, Mr. Jenkins. I’m Mrs. Johnson. Are you from the Agency?

  Jenkins took her outreached hand, trying not to crush it.

  –I’m from a governmental program that caters to veterans like Mr. Miller. I’m here to see if we can do anything to help him through his… difficult times.

  The wrinkles on her face deepened.

  –Yes, I’ve been his neighbor for years now, and I’ve seen him go through more than anyone should.

  –Mrs. Johnson, I really appreciate your concern. Can you tell me something more about him?

  –Oh, that beautiful boy. He’s been through a lot, you know. Divorce, drug problems...too much drinking... But we used to have bridge evenings. And now he hasn’t been out for a month.

  She clicked her tongue.

  Bridge evenings? Jenkins thought. Mark Miller hunched over a card table with a trio of grandmothers, chewing a toothpick, laying down a savage trump with the same hand that once held a sniper rifle?

  Mrs. Johnson lowered her voice, glancing around to ensure no one else was listening.

  –And I’ve heard him talking to himself in Spanish, arguing with someone who isn’t there. And sometimes he is crying too.

  Jenkins nodded. The guy was losing it, obviously.

  –Have you seen any real visitors, Mrs. Johnson?

  –Oh, yes. He has a friend. I saw him about a month ago. She measured the height with her hand. –Tall, Black, heavily built, and yes, shaved head.

  –Do you remember the date?

  –Thursday the sixteenth. Ten o’clock. My daughter always comes around ten with my groceries and Sister Marie’s Personal Thick Padding, and…

  –Ma’am, Jenkins interrupted. –You’ve been most helpful. I’ll be in touch if there’s anything more. Here’s my card. Call me anytime. Goodbye.

  With that, he turned and hurried down the filthy stairs, out to the street where he vanished among dumpsters and garbage.

  Mrs. Johnson stared after him.

  –Oh dear — you’d think he was being chased by a demon!

  Upstairs, Mark Miller smiled.