The Measure(42)

Hoping to enjoy their final season of freedom, they came home each night to cold beers and cold pizza and Madden NFL. They dragged a discarded foosball table from the curb into their living room. And they took turns serving as wingmen at the Georgetown bars on Saturdays.

But then, on a Friday evening in June, the ground shifted underneath them.

“What exactly does this STAR thing mean?” Javi asked.

“I think it means that we have to look,” Jack said. “That we don’t have a choice anymore.”



Before the strings arrived, branch assignments for new lieutenants had been determined based on the graduates’ interests, coupled with the needs of the army. But the world had changed in the past three months. There was new information to consider.

After the president’s announcement that all military positions would require a string disclosure—to be completed in person, by presenting your box to the commanding officer overseeing your geographic region—word quickly spread among Jack and Javi’s former classmates that certain roles, such as those involving active combat in high-risk areas, would no longer be open to short-stringer soldiers. Though it was believed that many of those already deployed would have the chance to be grandfathered in, finishing their service regardless, the newest recruits would be placed according to string length.

“They’re forcing us to look at our strings, even if we didn’t want to,” Jack ranted. “And for what? They think they can change fate? As if not sending a short-stringer into combat would somehow save their life? I bet they’re just trying to save themselves.”

“I don’t know,” said Javi, more ambivalent than his friend. “Maybe they feel guilty marching a band of short-stringers into a battle zone without even trying to do something about it.”

But neither had time to do much complaining, or to properly sort out their feelings, as they were promptly assigned times to report to the nearest army recruiting office, their respective boxes in tow. It was recommended that those who hadn’t yet looked at their strings do so in advance of their appointment, to avoid any shock in the room.

They had two weeks until they were called.



Jack and Javier sat on the couch with the two small boxes on the cushion between them and the string calculator queued up on Jack’s iPad.

Their bodies and minds had overcome plenty of challenges in recent years: arduous obstacle courses, new cadet hazing, boxing matches, navigating hilly, swampy, wooded terrain with only a compass in hand. But the task before them now was by far the hardest yet.

“Do you think you’d try to quit?” Jack asked. “If it’s short?”

“Well, I worked really hard to get this far,” said Javi. “And I made a commitment—to the army and to myself. So I think I’ve got to keep going. No matter what’s inside.”

Javier’s parents were both devout Catholics, so he sent up a silent prayer in their honor, and then gave Jack a nod. He was ready.

Because he had to be.

When Jack measured his string, he sighed a full exhale of relief that broke into a smile.

But Javier fell quiet.



Javi chose not to tell his parents. They were too thrilled to see him in uniform, a graduate of one of the finest colleges in the country and someone who commanded respect from every person he met. It was everything they wanted for their son.



Jack spent the next week caring for his grieving roommate, bringing food to his bedroom, constantly asking if there was anything he needed.

A few days later, the only thing that Javier needed was to get out of the apartment and run.

The two boys followed their usual route along a handful of blocks where many of the shops and restaurants had been boarded up since April, giving the streets an eerie bareness, though the emptier roads did make for easier running, without as many cars or shoppers to dodge. And the boys could use a particularly angry burst of graffiti on one of the barren storefronts—“Fuck the strings!!”—as their three-mile marker.

For a lot of the run Jack was quiet, only the heavy patter of their sneakers on the pavement making noise. It wasn’t until they reached the midway point that Jack spoke up.

“Javi?”

Javi kept his eyes focused ahead. “Yeah?”

“What if . . . what if we switched?”

Javi still didn’t crack his concentration. “Switched what?” he asked.

“Switched our strings,” Jack said.

That’s when Javi stopped abruptly. “What did you say?”

A biker behind them started frantically ringing his bell, but Javi stood frozen in the road.

“Watch out!” the cyclist yelled, and Jack quickly pulled Javi out of the way, just before the rider whirred past, flipping them off.

“Are you okay?” Jack asked. “You almost got hit!”

But Javi couldn’t focus on anything else. “Did you actually say switch our strings?”

Jack nodded. “Am I fucking nuts to even be saying that?”

Yes, you are, Javier thought. “But . . . it wouldn’t really change anything,” he said.

“It might not change the ending,” said Jack, “but it sure as hell would change everything else.”

Javier still didn’t get it. “Why would you want to pretend to have a short string?”