Feet scrape on dry boards. He leans out with a flat packet wrapped in red paper and tied up with string level on his left palm right hand on the upright jamb, my ticket slid in under the string, looks me in the face and says—

“Douche.”

I stare at him.

“Douche,” he says again in the same tone a little louder and pumps the packet once in the air.

I point at my chest.

“Low.”

“Hanh?” He looks at me now.

“Low is my name.”

The tip of his tongue flicks in and out once.

“That’s not my name,” I say measuredly.

He is visibly thinking, but not the right way. He half-thrusts the pack at my hand with a look that as much as says all this were a bit much coming from me. “Look, I don’t—... It’s not—” he says.

“I want my pack.”

“There’s no Loo.”

He shakes his head at there’s no and then pushes it a little forward at what he takes for my name, all very expressive.

“Well I’m here aren’t I? Here’s my name, here’s my regiment, same as your flag.”

I take and flap the ticket at him and he fans his fingers at it like a man declining to give to a tramp. He stands upright and turns a little away from me, resting his eyes on the familiar entrails of his store. His mouth is open and he has a nonplussed look, like why don’t I just melt into the rest of this dream.

“Loo—Douche ...” he says bobbing his head to the left and to the right and follows the words with an uncouth sound like “egkhhh,” flipping his free hand. He looks back at me and tosses me the pack.

“Here.”

I catch it to my chest.

“I don’t want this.”

The sergeant just mashes his mouth tighter closed and shakes his head, strides into the back of the store lifting his feet over bundles.

Should I toss it back? It’s not really an idea. I’m already walking away, turning this pack over—no name, Douche or otherwise, no number, no marking. It must have had its own labelled cubbyhole.

I sit on a white rock by the road, set the packet across my knees, and open it. The first thing I see as the stiff wine-colored paper opens its folds are the arm bands marked with antique scarlet plusses—so this is a medic’s kit, anyway. I open the oilskin wallet underneath them, and rock back a bit on my rock. A passing man in a white canvas uniform sees me, first soldier I’ve set eyes on here, nods his head back as he comes up without at all going over to me.

“It’s good?” he asks, tilting his upper lip. He’s leaning forward, holds the base of his rucksack with both his hands.

“I’m in authority, it says here.”