A mature sun pressed relentless heat and light against the almond-colored landscape. The ground around them responded with blinking silver sparkles and shimmering reflections, the protest of billions of atoms in billions of separate places. Light didn’t always illuminate.
The Wolfhounds brought Mongrel to the Aid Station. Grenade fragments had lightly peppered his hand. Because his wounds were superficial, he had insisted he wouldn’t be left behind, and wanted the platoon to wait for him so he could go out for the afternoon’s mission. Wynn had agreed to wait if the Doc said Mongrel would be ready in an hour. The Doc did. So the platoon went to lunch and then came back. Halliburton, his mouth white with paper pulp, brought Mongrel a plate from the DFAC. The Aid Station had no further info
