Children of Paranoia by Trevor Shane

It was an old joke, older than we were. I’d heard my parents say it. We tried to avoid talking about the War but our conversation kept circling back to it. It always did. Each of us told the others about rumors we’d heard—recent victories, recent defeats, people we knew who’d been promoted up the ranks, people we knew who’d been killed. We didn’t talk about why we fought. We’d had that conversation too many times already. It never went anywhere. We’d all heard the theories, some theories more than others. In one, there were originally five groups fighting each other. We were the only two left. In another, we had once been slaves and our enemy the slave masters. When we revolted, we won our freedom and they let us go. The problem was that as soon as we left, they turned around and began enslaving other people. So we came back to fight them once and for all, to end their reign, to keep the world free. That’s the version we heard the most—probably because it was the one where we were the most heroic. We all believed that someday we’d be told the whole story. The rumor was that if you rose high enough in the ranks, they told you everything. Sometimes that was the only reason I cared about being promoted.
    The food came and we just kept talking. The talk slowly turned from the War to us reminiscing about the good times we’d had when we were young and carefree. Even with the War hanging over our heads, when we were seventeen we felt like we’d be seventeen forever. Those were some of the best times of my life. Then, one at a time, we turned eighteen.
    When we were about halfway through our meal, she walked in. Michael had been watching the traffic going in and out of the restaurant since the minute we sat down, hoping he could get two girls’ phone numbers before we even got to the bar. He noticed her right away. She was hard to forget. “Hey, your little friend is here,” he said to me.
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” I asked. It took me a few seconds before it dawned on me. Michael was lifting his hand to wave her over to our table when my reflexes kicked in. I grabbed his hand before he was able to get it above his shoulder and slammed it down into the table. It made a loud banging sound against the wood. A few of the people at the surrounding tables turned and glared at us.
    â€œJesus Christ, what the fuck was that for?” Michael asked, twisting his wrist, checking to see if I had broken something.
    â€œNo waving,” I ordered. “Answer my question. Who is my little friend?” I didn’t dare look for myself.
    â€œThat hot Asian woman from the bar last night,” Michael replied. “What the fuck’s your problem? Did you strike out that bad?”
    â€œHas she seen us?” I asked, keeping my voice quiet. My gut was talking to me again. I was determined to listen to it this time. This was wrong. There were no coincidences, not in our line of work.
    â€œI don’t know,” Michael answered. His voice dropped, following my lead. “I can’t really tell. If she has, she’s not acting like she has.”
    â€œAct like you haven’t seen her,” I said under my breath. “Better yet, act like you don’t even recognize her.” It was another order. I didn’t pretend that it wasn’t.
    â€œSeriously, Joe, what’s going on here?” Jared asked.
    I began shaking my head, trying to decipher what this could all mean. “Bad feelings,” I replied. “I just got a bad vibe from her, that’s all. She was asking me a lot of questions.”
    â€œQuestions about what?” Jared pressed. It didn’t take him long to become deadly serious. It never did.
    â€œAbout Brooklyn,” I replied. The word immediately resonated with both my friends.
    â€œWhat about Brooklyn?” Jared pressed further. He leaned back in his chair, faking a smile in case