Lett followed the trail. Dense foliage on both sides kept him walled in, and it was nearly a tunnel with the branches stretching overhead. Insects hummed; a strong wind swished between branches, leaves, fronds. He heard other sounds coming his way, but they were muffled. At a fork in the path, he saw the sign that read QUARTERS. Another sign read TRAINING GROUND. That trail led to the left. Despite Selfer’s instructions, he started to follow it out of curiosity, but then he spotted, through the bushes, the whole works—an obstacle course, dummies for bayoneting, a platform for something, perhaps parachuting, or for sniping? Farther away, in a distant clearing, he heard the muffled pops and ripples of weapons firing.

Despite Selfer assurances, he realized that this was the first time he’d been on a training base since the war. His pulse raced. He was sweating again, despite the cooler air this high up, and it coated his neck and he wiped at it. He backtracked; took the trail he should’ve taken.

The stronger wind brought a sudden rain that washed out all sound. He stopped and stood under a large frond a moment until the rain faded to a blanket mist. Less than ten minutes had gone by, but it seemed like an age by the time he reached the end of the trail.

He crouched behind a large fern at the trailhead and looked out. The clearing resembled the one he and Kanani first entered in the disguised pickup, but it was larger—about one football field wide and long. It held six newly built bungalows, three on each side, separated by a wide lane down the middle. At the opposite end, the clearing made a hard right and continued like an L, and down that way Lett saw some olive drab tents blending in with the tree line.

His chest had tightened. His leg quivered but he squeezed his thigh till it stopped. His senses amplified from his old caution. Every sparkle, color, edge, and curve etched in his mind. This kind of caution shouldn’t have been necessary here, but he welcomed it as the finest quirk there ever was. It had saved his ass so many times. On the front lines in France and Belgium, he didn’t see quaint junctions and lush forests—using his etching eyes, he had carved out enemy snipers focusing, machine guns targeting, the artillery aiming. Caution was his rabbit’s foot. Caution was God.