@ the DMV(thoughts on PTSD)

The food is ultra flavorful and also hazardous. Everyone is so hospitable while being just a few pounds over-weight. The weather is splendid (keeping in mind its the end of December). And the pace is a tad bit more brisk than that of a snail. This is the Savannah that i know.
This morning i had to be at the DMV by 7:30am or that's when the doors opened. My license had expired and I procrastinated too long. So, now i had to re-test. The catch is that they only test 5 applicants per day...the first five in line when the doors open.
I'm from NYC (but i prefer GA's drivers license because it has the colorful peaches on it and I have a house there!) and i know how to beat the system. I woke up at 6:30 and thought I'd beat everyone to the DMV. While everyones asleep, I'll be the first one there. I got ready and made it there by 7am. To my bewilderment, the parking lot was already half full! I guess i had misjudged the Savannians once again... or had I??
The morning air had a chill in it by southern standards. For God's sake it was 50 degrees! Everybody seemed to think it was too cold to stand in line so they all sat in their cars... that was just the break i needed! i jumped out and very casually walked to the door and just stood there. And almost like i pulled the fire alarm, all the cars' occupants scurried to fall in behind me.

I proudly filled out the paperwork, knowing that I would be first because I'm from Brooklyn and I know how to hustle. After a short while, the attendant called my name. She told me I would be #2. Foiled again!! Each of us, testee #1 and I walked to our vehicles together and I proceeded "so, you've got the top spot?" And he answered "The only reason I have the top spot is that I leave for Iraq in two hours." At that moment the selfish and jealous feelings I had towards him for taking my #1 pole position gave way to guilt.
"This is my second tour. I got sent home a few months ago after I got injured by an IED...I got hit in the head by shrapnel" he said as he turned to show me the long diagonal scar on the side of his face.
"They wanted me to have psychological treatment" he continued.
"And they're sending you back???"
"Man, I'm going back!...I'm a soldier!"
The guy couldn't have been more than 22 years old. Listening to him inside the office, my first impression was that he was from a lower middle class or even poor background. He spoke loudly with a strong southern drawl like someone who's not quite all there.
"Good luck man!" I offered.
He responded with a half-hearted "yeah" almost like he was sure of his success and didn't need any luck from me.
we both went on to pass our exams. I probably never crossed his mind after our brief encounter but he has remained in my thoughts. I wonder what will become of him. Hopefully he will survive and make it back. But what will happen when he returns? Lets make no mistake about it, he will need treatment. So will thousands of other young men and women. Even if we don't agree with their mission, we have asked a lot from them, surely we owe them sufficient care when they return home