GREEN EYES.

March 1, 2007

I wrote this one after a shift that I’ll never forget—not because of what happened on the calls, but because of who rode along with me. My wife. She sat in the back of that rig, smiling like she belonged there, taking in the city, the chaos, the heartbreak, and the quiet in ways I hadn’t in years. Those green eyes didn’t miss a thing. She watched me work, not with judgment or awe, but with a kind of quiet understanding that cut straight through the noise. In a job that so often drains you to the bone, she gave me something back that night: perspective, pride, and a sense that maybe all this madness still meant something. I wrote this for her. Because sometimes the only thing that keeps you going in this line of work… is knowing someone sees you—and still believes in what you do.