Around him, the platoon was a collection of ghosts draped in olive drab. There was Sergeant Elias, who moved through the elephant grass like he was part of the wind, and Barnes, whose face was a roadmap of scars and a reminder that surviving often meant losing your soul.
As the smoke cleared and the medic moved toward a downed soldier, Elias appeared beside Taylor, placing a steady hand on his shoulder.
A twig snapped. It sounded like a gunshot in the oppressive stillness.
"Keep your interval, Taylor," Elias whispered, not even turning his head. "The jungle has eyes, and they like it when we huddle."
