What did I do? WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? I screamed at the top of my lungs as I watched the speedo bounce near one hundred. WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE DOING THIS FOR? I looked up as the ravine raced closer. All I could think as I wiped the snot and tears off my face is that Stanford is gonna wonder how the hell I burned through so much fuel. It doesn’t add up, he’d say. NOTHING FUCKING ADDS UP is all I can think. The front end vibrates at a little over a hundred. The roads aren’t what they used to be. I slam on the brakes; the car stalls out. I don’t even have the balls to take my own life, let alone anyone else’s anymore. What are we doing this for? Who?

I lit up one of my last pre-rolled cigarettes. Stale. But they’re more a trigger. Some screwed up residual piece left from when they were all still alive. How messed up does someone have to be for the taste of a filter on a stale cigarette to be all I got left of anything tangible from before. All I can do is laugh at myself. Bring a little mercy back into the world? Damn, how I wish that would bring them all back. Just for a day. A couple hours, even. PULL IT TOGETHER SOLIDER! SUCK IT UP AND DRIVE ON! That’s what Stanford’ll say right after he spits on the ground at my feet. I can’t tell him about the one-armed old bastard with the .22. I went out again but never saw him. I never saw him.

I finish the cigarette, all the way down to the filter. Then start the car and head back to camp. It’ll take the idiot new recruits at the checkpoint at least a half hour to search me and the car. Stanford ain’t much for waitin’ around.