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The Medic slides a needle into his arm and everything goes quiet.
The drug races through him, turning his thoughts to frozen molasses, He’s trapped, watching from above as the doctor works, the scene hazy as a half-remembered dream. The Medic’s office drifts away like a ship in a broken bottle; the Soldier’s heartbeat slowing to match the ebb and flow of the waves, the resonating rhythm of artillery answering as he sinks into the sea, waterlogged uniform dragging him down.
The doctor drops a third bullet fragment into the tray.
Starbursts play at the edges of the Soldier’s vision, the dancing flame of the lamp turning to flickering, fluttering canary-yellow wings.
He’s shaking to his bones with uncontrollable tremors. He remembers the time he was thrown from a horse, falling through the air like a blast from a mortar, but without the ringing in his ears, just Jolene’s laugh, light as bells, and her radiant smile.
plink.
He had gotten the flu once, really bad. His mother had called a priest. They surrounded him like hungry shadows, waiting. The Soldier remembers Jolene, her hands soft and cool on his burning skin. She stroked his hair, lulling him to sleep.
But he can’t remember the sound of her voice, drowned by the steady snip, snip of surgical scissors. A pair of shining sightless eyes reflect moon-bright above him. There’s a sharp pain in his side, and the pressure in his chest immediately lessens, allowing the Soldier to finally slip into crushing, blissful unconsciousness.
The Soldier appears pale, still, but asleep, his chest rising and falling with less difficulty as the hours blur together.
He blinks awake, lifting heavy eyelids to see a familiar, fuzzy shape at his bedside. He raises an unsteady hand to pull away an oxygen mask, bringing the figure into focus.
"Truckie?" the Soldier says, his voice a murmur, hoarse and hopeful.