He waited. And it began again. He counted the intervals between what he believed were footsteps. Sometimes it was eight seconds. Then it was three. Then two. Then eight. He rested and counted and then he decided to pretend to piss, to see if he could see where this walking was. He rose up quickly, as if he had just come free from the tent flap. He looked around and of course saw nothing. The tents were walking height. All he saw was the one next to his, the one behind his, the one ahead of his. To walk onto the joining footpath would be madness. There was a significant chance of finding the night patrol. But he had not heard their footsteps, had he? They would have walked in intervals that were regular. They were just walking. No, they were not here. He felt a rush at his own deductions. It pushed him out onto the path. Pissing would still be his cover.

The moon was exceedingly small, and even though his eyes had adjusted to the twine of light by being outside for so long, he was shocked by the darkness the tents created. He could smell the canvas, its fabric faint petroleum. He was looking down a corridor whose ending vanished beyond his eyes’ capacities. The air was silent.

Down far but not the last row, he saw a figure. But no, there was another figure. Or was he confusing the first; had he merely moved? But now there was a third, and as quickly as he had appeared, there came a fourth. He held his breath. Like the first sip of wine that warms, he knew it. This was no chance meeting.

If he moved, they were certain to see him. If he did not move, there was a possibility they might not see him, but it was a small one. If he could see them, they could see him. He was racing inside to accommodate his raging surprise. Not patrol. He felt a slick sensation in his stomach. His rectum went hot. He felt his bowels loosening, a wretched insufficiency of control. He pulled up on himself. And the memory busted into him then. He had caught his cousin with a magnifying glass. His cousin was holding it above an ant. It was noon. The ant began to smoke. First its fluttering kickers and antenna and filigree sparked. Then there was a mute flame—so small. What was left was a crinkle. And then his cousin found another one.

The reek of his intestines drifted away. He shook there, unmoving, and not quite still.

They moved toward one another.

Then they were gone down the side of a tent.

He dropped to the ground.

Still, still, still, still. He said this inside.

Still, still, still.

He didn’t even want to put his ear to the ground.

They were upon him quickly.