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Four fingers of cheap whiskey and she drank it down like iced tea. Peter made a mental note: don’t fuck with old ladies.
And even if you’d somehow made it home alive and relatively intact, you still carried it around with you, that powerful mix of pride and shame. For who you were. For what you’d done.
War sucks.
The pain bloomed like a midnight rose. But Peter had been hit before. Pain was just information. Information that should not interfere with your ability to do the job at hand.
When you woke on a clifftop in a granite cathedral, it was easy to think you’d chosen that life on purpose.
