51
“War, the most ancient of games,” the serpent told them in the time between, “where even the winner loses.”
France
WWI
“Nebraska. Hey, Nebraska.”
The words funnel to me as I’m lying on the floor of my family’s old root cellar. I hear rumbling and retorts like thunder. It must be storming, and we’ve taken shelter in the cellar down where it’s always cold, even in July, and where shelves of Mom’s canned corn, tomatoes, and jellies line the walls.
“God damn,” my mom says in a voice unlike hers at all. I never heard Mom cuss before, and it makes me snort.
“Gawd Oh Mighty,” the voice says, “Frank, Nebraska, open your damn eyes.”
Someone pushes on my eyelids forcing them open. A face hangs above me and it isn’t my ma or pa. I take a deep breath and gag on fetid air. Turning my head br
