OUR LAST night on the FOB, some of us got together and passed around some cans of duster. We huffed duster till Sergeant Bautista lost touch with his central nervous system. He swayed back and forth like a blind piano player. A stream of drool ran from Bautista’s lip and pooled in his lap. We said, “Oh, shit. Look at that.” We asked was he alright. After a minute he said he was alright. Then we huffed one last can of duster. And it was alright, like we were kids.
