He came into the clearing and dropped the water bottles in a pile. The camp was just as he’d left it. Soldiers joking. One of them, a blond kid with an acid-burned face who he thought was called Slick, was kicking the villagers every time they looked like they were lifting their heads or looking around. Other soldiers were squatting down, eating smoked jerky. Sergeant Ocho sat against a tree, looking sleepy, holding his side where he’d been ripped up by the half-man. Nothing out of place—

Mouse froze. Lieutenant Sayle stood on the far side of the clearing, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. And he was watching him. Cold gray eyes, watching. They didn’t show a thought or a feeling, his gaunt face was expressionless, but the man’s eyes lingered.

Mouse made a hesitant salute as his skin prickled, aping what he’d seen the other warboys do. The lieutenant’s lips quirked into something like a smile, mocking, but he gave a lazy return to Mouse’s gesture of respect.

“Ghost!” someone shouted. “Hey, half-bar!” Mouse finally realized that he was being called and turned away from the lieutenant.

Gutty, the slack kid with the flappy skin on his arms and legs and belly.

“Go get us some firewood!” he ordered. “On the double, boy! We don’t keep no lazy maggots! You’re elite! Let’s see the sweat! UPF ain’t afraid to sweat! Get on it, warboy!”

Mouse tried another salute. He was as exhausted as everyone else, but he stumbled for the forest again.

Maybe this time, he’d get free.

As he headed into the jungle, he saw a pair of soldier boys emerge from the trees, liquid shadows, from the direction of the swamps where he’d just been, gathering water.

For the barest instant, they glanced at Mouse, and his gut tightened into a knot of fear as they crossed the camp, headed for Lieutenant Sayle.

They were all around, Mouse realized.

It was all a test. Every bit of it. He wasn’t crazy. There really were eyes on him.

“Make sure it’s dry!” Gutty shouted. “I don’t want no damn green wood smoking and going out!”

The jungle travel continued, warboys joking and talking themselves up, kicking the prisoners when they didn’t move fast enough. They put Mouse on guard duty, standing over people who had been kind to him.

Sometimes one of the soldiers would come over to him and tell him that one of the prisoners had disobeyed.

Mouse was supposed to kick them in the ribs, or else pour acid on their backs, to make their skin smoke. He called them maggots and worse.

He kicked them to stand up when they lay on the ground.

Made them put their faces in the dirt, when they were standing tall.