I opened my eyes.
Light through the flaps. Grayish. Early. Most of them were still out—curled on benches, mouths open, faces slack like dead people who forgot to stop breathing. A younger guy was awake. Mid-twenties. Staring at nothing. Roy too. Roy looked like he'd never slept in his life.
I found a crack in the canvas. Pressed my face close.
Outside, shapes. People. Walking. Not running. Just... walking. Like a normal day. Like there wasn't a war.
"Indiana," Roy said.
"So... second tour for you?" I said. Trying to make small talk. Like we were at a bus stop. Like any of this was normal. "How desperate are they to grab me and you for this?"
"First tour," he said finally. Voice low. Rough. Like the words had to climb out. "Drafted at eighteen. Did my time. Came home."
He let that sit.
"Now they want me again. Means they're scraping the barrel. Means you're the barrel too."
"Yeah. I mean, why else?" I shrugged. "Sixteen and sixty. Not exactly first picks."
He looked at me then. Really looked. First time since the name talk.
"I figured you were sixteen, maybe seventeen. Still a kid. Same as I was."
He let that hang.
"They took us at eighteen back then. Said we were men. Sent us to die anyway. Now they're taking sixteen. Seventeen. Doesn't matter the number. They need bodies, they take kids again. Same as my generation."
His jaw tightened. Thumb pressed hard against the callus. Not rubbing anymore. Just pressing. Like he could push the anger back in through his skin.
"Makes me mad. Not surprised. Mad. They never learn. Just keep doing the same thing. Grab the young ones, grab the old ones, throw 'em in. Hope it works this time."
He exhaled through his nose. Sharp.
"It never works."
He looked away. Back to the dark.
"But they keep trying."
I didn't say anything. Didn't know what to say. Sorry felt stupid. That sucks felt stupider. So I just sat there with the word fighting still bouncing around my head.
Sixty years old. He did this already. Came home. Lived a whole life. And now he's back in a truck going toward the same thing.
I thought about being sixty. Couldn't picture it. Couldn't picture thirty. Couldn't picture next week.
Maybe I should start thinking about my future.
"Are you gonna run?" I asked Roy.
He exhaled again. Longer this time. Slower.
"Run?" The word came out rough, like he'd chewed on it first. "Thought about it. Back in '68, some boys did. Canada. Mexico. Some just disappeared into the woods. They talked big about it. Freedom. Not dying for nothing."
He paused. The mid-twenties guy shifted but didn't look over.
Roy's voice stayed low. No heat. No preach.
"Never ran myself. Went because they called. Went because my dad went. Went because the flag was everywhere and the news said we were stopping the dominoes from falling. Went because I believed it. Or told myself I did. Or didn't know how not to."
"You still believe in it?" I asked.
Roy didn't answer right away. The truck rumbled, light flickering through the crack, casting shadows across his face. He stared into the dark, thumb pressing the callus until the skin went white.
When he spoke, his voice was slow. Rough. But not angry.
"Government? No. Not that. They lie. They always lied. Promised one thing, delivered another. Left us hanging when we came home. No parades. No help. Just stares and spit."
He shifted an inch against the canvas.
"But the idea? America?"
He looked at me then. Eyes open. Steady. Just tired.
"Yeah. I still believe in that. Not the suits in Washington. Not the flag they wave for cameras. The thing underneath. People helping people. Freedom to speak, own what you earn, raise your kids without some bastard telling you how. A place where a man can stand up and say 'this is wrong' and not vanish for it."
He paused.
"Seen it buried. Seen it twisted. Seen it used to sell wars. But it's still there. Somewhere. That's why I went once. That's why I stay now. Not for the government. For the thing they're trying to break but can't quite kill."
He looked away.
"Or maybe I'm just an old fool who doesn't know how to quit."
I didn't know what to say.
Roy's words just hung there. America. The idea of it. I never thought about it like that. Never thought about it at all.
"Never thought about America like that," I said. "Maybe I was ungrateful for what I had."
He turned his head. Looked at me sideways. Eyes narrow, not mad. Just flat and unimpressed.
"Yeah," he said. "You probably did."
This damn truck just kept going and going. I was starting to get motion sickness, I felt it in my stomach and my head, always something I swear.
I looked back over at Roy, who was staring straight, who knows what he is thinking. That guy is…I can't even describe. A lot of layers, I would say.
We seemed to pick up some company, I heard a car behind us of some kind i didnt bother looking.
The engine died with a long, tired hiss. Vibration quit. Silence pressed in thick—wind on canvas, distant generators thumping somewhere ahead, boots already scraping gravel outside like someone had been waiting.
Flaps ripped open. Cold rushed in sharp, carrying wet dirt, burnt coffee, and the faint sour of latrines dug too shallow. Morning light came thin and white, the kind that shows every line on a face without mercy.
A sergeant stood there. Mid-thirties, wind-chapped cheeks, eyes red from too many nights staring at radio screens. Helmet strap loose under his chin. Rifle slung across his chest like it weighed nothing.
"Out. Form up on the yellow line. Leave everything in the truck. No talking. Move."
We all got up and walked out one by one.
The cold hit first. Not like outside my house cold. Different. Wet. It got in my clothes before I could stop it. I shivered and couldn't stop that either.
I noticed Tommy rubbing the back of his neck. Kyle kept blinking like he couldn't focus. Frank walked stiff, favoring his right leg. The mid-twenties guy—still hadn't caught his name—moved past me without looking.
Roy came last. Slow. Not because he was old. Because he wanted to see everything before it saw him.
The yellow line was spray paint on gravel. Faint. Fading.
"Eyes front. Hands at sides. You are not men. You are not soldiers. You are nine breathing mistakes I have to fix before lunch. Stand straight or I will spend the next hour proving why your mothers should have swallowed."
He stopped at Tommy first. The kid's hand was still halfway to his neck, frozen mid-rub.
"You. The one who can't stop caressing his own throat like it's the last girl who ever let him touch her. What are you, practicing for when the mortars come and you choke on your own blood? Drop that hand before I snap it off and use it to salute your cowardice."
Tommy's arm dropped. Face went gray. Eyes wide.
I thought they only did this in movies. Guess I was wrong.
Next Kyle. Shoulders still curved in, acne scars livid in the cold light.
"You. The walking pizza advert. Look at that face—God must've used a cheese grater instead of a paintbrush. Stand up straight or I will pin your ears back and use your head as a dartboard. Maybe if I hit the bullseye enough times your girlfriend will finally remember what you used to look like before the mirror started crying."
Kyle locked his spine. Breath came out in short, angry bursts through his nose.
Then the older guy, late sixties probably, mouth open, wheezing softly.
"You. Grandfather Time's least favorite grandson. Breathing like every inhale is a loan you can't pay back. Close that mouth before flies lay eggs in it. Or better yet, keep it open—I'll use it as a latrine when you finally keel over from the effort of standing upright."
The old man's jaw clicked shut. Eyes dropped to the gravel.
Roy. Thumb still circling the callus in slow, unconscious rhythm.
"You. The old fuck who can't stop petting his own hand like it's the last pussy he'll ever touch. What is that—your retirement hobby? Stop rubbing it like you're trying to coax a miracle out of your own skin. Lock that hand at your side or I'll snap every finger you got left and use 'em as toothpicks for the next load of losers who think they're tougher than you."
Roy's thumb froze. Hand flattened against his leg. No flinch, but the line of his mouth went thin.
Guess they weren't told about our past. Wait, how did we even get snatched then? I understand me maybe i don't have any kind of past or record yet besides what the government has. Roy definitely has vietnam veteran in his information.
The sergeant got me out of my thoughts by stopping and staring at me.
He leaned in close—close enough that I could see the red veins in his eyes, smell the old coffee and nicotine.
"You. The soft little bitch who walks like he's still waiting for someone to call him inside. Chin tucked, shoulders rolled forward like you're trying to hide from the daylight itself. Chin up. Shoulders back. Or I will grab that chicken neck of yours, drag you to the front of the line, and let every one of these sorry sacks watch while I teach you what happens to boys who think the world is still going to pat them on the head and tell them it's all right. Move."
I stared at the gravel.
Softest bitch. Really?
Fuck this fucking guy.
Why's he so mean? I barely did anything. Just stood there. Chin tucked, I guess. Shoulders whatever. Didn't even say a word, and he's already decided I'm the one who needs to be put in line.
I put my hand around my neck. Felt it. It wasn't that skinny. It's just a neck. Everyone's got one.
Hell, I got snatched out of my house. Nobody told me it was alright. Nobody patted my head. They shoved my mom and dragged me into a truck. If that's soft, what's hard? What's he want me to do, fight back and get shot?
Wait.
He only called out five of us. Tommy. Kyle. The old guy. Roy. Me.
Some of them got a pass. The mid-twenties guy. Frank. Couple others I didn't catch names for.
Why?
Why them and not me?
Why'd he stop at me, lean in, call me out special?
Do I look like the weakest link? Is it written on my face? Does everyone see it?
I took a breath. Tried the four-six thing. Four in. Six out.
My mind went quiet for a few seconds. Just gravel. Just my boots on the yellow line.
Then it came back.
I'm getting my feelings hurt by a guy I just met. Because he called me mean words. That's it. That's all he did. Talked. And I'm standing here spiraling over it like he punched me.
Guess I really am a soft bitch.
I hate this.
I wanna go home.