Mazi said, Ewe ahr dee bawss.

Roger-fucking-that.

Mike pushed the African farther away, then glanced down at Ben.

How you doing?

Ben said, What did you do to my mother?

Nothing. We just waited for her to get back so that I could call. I wanted her to know you're gone.

I don't want to be gone. I want to go home.

I know. We'll take care of that as soon as we can. You want something to eat?

I want to go home.

You need to pee?

Take me home. I want to see my mom.

Mike patted Ben's head. He had a triangle tattooed on the back of his right hand. It was old, with the ink beginning to blur.

I'm Mike. He's Mazi. That's Eric. You're going to be with us for a while, so be cool. That's just the way it is.

Mike smiled at Ben, then glanced at Mazi and Eric.

Put'm in the box.

It happened just as fast as when they plucked him from the hill beneath the walnut trees. They scooped him up again, retaped his legs, and carried him through the house, holding him so tight that he couldn't make a sound. They brought him outside in the cold night air, but they covered his eyes so he couldn't see. Ben kicked and struggled as they pushed him into a large plastic box like a coffin. He tried to sit up, but they pushed him down. A heavy lid slammed closed over him. The box suddenly moved and tipped, then fell away beneath him as if they had dropped him down a well. He hit the ground hard.

Ben stopped struggling to listen.

Something hard rained on top of the box with a scratchy roar only inches over his face. Then it happened again.

Ben realized what they were doing with an explosion of horror. He slammed into the sides of his plastic prison, but he couldn't get out. The sounds that rained down on him grew further and further away as the rocks and dirt piled deep and Ben Chenier was buried in the earth.

5 time missing: 6 hours, 16 minutes T ed Fields, Luis Rodriguez, Cromwell Johnson, and Roy Abbott died three hours after our team picture was taken. Team pictures had been taken before every mission, the five of us suited up alongside the helicopter like a high-school basketball team before the big game. Crom Johnson used to joke that the pictures were taken so the army could identify our bodies. Ted called them death shots. I turned the picture Ben had found face down so I wouldn't have to see them.

I had taken a couple of hundred snapshots of red dirt, triple-canopy jungles, beaches, rice paddies, water buffalo, and the bicycle-clogged streets and bazaars of Saigon, but when I returned to the United States those images seemed meaningless, and I had thrown them away. The place had lost its importance to me, but the people had mattered. I kept only twelve pictures, and I was in three of them.