“You’re going to take this thing,” said Barton, holding up a fluorescent orange plastic triangle, “and drop it right out there,” pointing to the middle of the road. Twombly didn’t want to go. There was so much lead flying through that road that it felt like suicide to venture from cover, much less run out to the middle. It crossed his mind to refuse Barton’s order, but just as quickly he rejected that. If he didn’t do it, somebody else would have to. That wouldn’t be fair.
