Fallujah, Iraq 

He doesn’t hear me. 

  He looks ridiculous standing over me, waving his hands frantically and mouthing the word “lieutenant” repeatedly. 

  You trying to get killed, Corporal? This is a bloody warzone. 

  He doesn’t hear me. 

  I’m fine, just… numb. 

  The sand cradles my body like a top sheet, sticking to my sweat and my wound. 

  A locustian swarm of bullets crackles by. He collapses suddenly. As if a bandsaw ripped through his knees. 

  My face is warm and wet from the blood. A thick trickle slowly pours out like molasses. Is it his or mine? I dunno. The wind blasts sand into my face. It feels like breadcrumbs. The sun slowly bakes the batter sticking to my skin. Caked sand crumbles and falls away in chunks. The sound of gunfire crumbles and falls away in chunks. 

  My side doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. The bullet must have gone straight through. The wound feeds on my liver. But then the pain disappears, just disappears, as if I’d grown a new liver, one that I could take for granted. Soon the gnawing returns, and I go in and out of consciousness. 

  I smell fried onions. 

  I smell death. 

  I need to rest. 

  I stare at the sky for what feels like the last time. 

  God, the sky is blue. 

  He doesn’t hear me. 

  I close my eyes.

 

Wolf appears in Resistance, Revolution and Other Short Stories.