War sucks. PTSD is real. Military suicide is an epidemic. Facebook is where we live our lives. All true, put together at GQ:
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IT’S LATE AFTERNOON, MAY 5, 2014, and Daniel Wolfe walks up a shady street through bright sunshine, the heat still rising as the light falls. There’s hardly anyone around to see him, but still he’s a sight: a big lumbering shadow, six feet four, two forty, with a bad knee and a black backpack, a tall broad man among the low quiet houses. He’s wearing plaid shorts, black-and-green tennis shoes, a dark-color shirt. His backpack contains most of what he’s got left. Discharge papers. Records from V.A. hospitals in two states. Old warrants for his arrest. He’s got a V.A.-issued pamphlet on “Pain and Pain Management” and an appointment card for “Mandatory Suicide Prevention Education,” dated three months ago. He’s got a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, a cell phone, and a box cutter.