A mosquito landed on his arm. Bloodsucker. He slapped at it but missed. He’d never survive with that kind of aim. Draft didn’t care about precision. Point and shoot. He’d follow orders. Always did.

Until now.

An explosive crack seized his attention and his breathing. He dropped the half-smoked cigarette and reached for his weapon, but his nails dug into thick mud. His weapon was gone. His eyes darted around the hole. Where was it?

Panic claimed his breath as the familiar squishing of boots against soft earth grew closer. They were coming and they would kill him. He couldn’t tell who the enemy was any longer.

Biting down on his lip to stop it from quivering, he tasted blood. Proof of life, but for how long? He didn’t want to die. He wanted to go home. His frantic search landed on the bayonet. Miguel lunged for it and wrapped his clammy hand around the thick handle. He struggled out of the muddy pit, afraid it would become his tomb.

The swamp became his foe, slowing his escape. His boots slipped in the muck that threatened to hold him until he could be killed. He couldn’t slow down and he couldn’t hide—they’d find him.

Screaming startled him. He swung around and found her standing there. She stumbled backward into a tree. Her lips formed a small o as tears fell from frightened eyes.

The footsteps sounded behind him. They were coming. Miguel tightened his grip. They were coming to kill her. He couldn’t stop them. Salty tears stung his eyes, barely blurring her terrified expression.

It was too late.

Miguel took a step toward her and she screamed. He wanted to tell her to stop, but he knew if he opened his mouth his screams would match hers. He closed his eyes and swung his arm, bringing the bayonet down—

“Stop! Please stop screaming!” Miguel Roa’s eyes snapped open, her screams echoing in his ears. Why couldn’t he stop it? He should’ve protected them.

The throbbing in his head sent sharp pains to the back of his eyeballs. He groaned, closing his eyes. How long had it been since his last blackout? With more effort than it was worth, he pushed his eyelids open. The dark surroundings of his home spun around him. Miguel rolled to his side and let the cool cement floor bring him back to his senses.

When he was certain his world wouldn’t shift, he lifted his head. Slow and steady he pushed himself up to a sitting position on the floor. His legs stretched before him, Miguel stared at the boots still laced on his feet. His clothes were wrinkled and dirty. What day was it?