Late at night, a small bar outside the camp.
The rough wooden tables were buried under empty bottles. The savanna wind swept in, rattling the tarp stretched across the ceiling.
Arthur sat in the farthest corner. His eyes were bloodshot from drinking. His knuckles were bone-white where he gripped the glass, but his spine stayed rigid.
The bartender came by to collect the empties. Arthur placed a hand over his glass.
"Two more."
Golden liquor filled the glass. He stared at it, then tipped it back and drained it in one go.
Half an hour later, he stood.
His tailored designer coat was a wrinkled mess. His leather shoes tramped through the mud. He stumbled his way to the camp gate, where the night-watch volunteer stopped him.
"Visiting hours are over, sir. You need to leave."
Arthur did
