We're sitting around the campfire, the crackling flames casting a warm glow over our little makeshift camp in the forest clearing. Greg's arm is slung casual-like around my shoulders as we listen to Zander recount some ridiculous war story with more than a few embellishments, I'm sure.
"...So there I was, outnumbered ten-to-one by these Kragov brutes," Zander is saying in that gruff baritone of his. "Bullets zinging past my head like a whole swarm of angry bees!"
Greg snorts into his tin cup, taking a swig from whatever hooch is sloshing around in there tonight. "Your bald head did always make a tempting target, Z-man!"
The two dissolve intorale raucous laughter at that quip, shoving at each other's shoulders like a couple of school boys. I shake my head in amusement, taking a pull from
