It was blisteringly hot, and Dragomir found himself in the middle of an airstrike. He already had rapid bullets coming his way horizontally to worry about, but he also had to make sure he did not get hit from above.
He ran as fast as he could. The heat, the weight of his rifle, and the contents of his backpack all seemed to work against him. But every day at war was like this. Dragomir should get used to it, yet there were times when the burden felt even more real.
As he was running, he even tripped. He cursed aloud but regretted so as some dust came into his mouth. He spluttered, but he managed to get up again. Again, he cursed, sniping at his own perceived clumsiness. He was probably wasting his breath and time, but he had to let some of the steam out. It was better than screaming li
