An Island on the Iwo Jima Bedspread
by Scott Williams

"Hey Appleton," the voice on the phone says, "it's me. Bug. Did I wake you?" He forces himself to open his eyes and look at the clock on the bedside table. Red LEDs blurry with his sleep flicker an impassive three-sixteen. Through the window the view is soft black popped through here and there with the occasional lights of the city, like being inside a god-sized pinhole camera.

"No," he lies. "What's going on?"