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Reynolds face-down on the ground, his brains leaking out his open mouth. As soon as Reynolds was dead, he could rest. Everything would make sense again and he’d be at peace. He took out another joint and smoked it. The sun bore down on him, its heat a heavy weight, and soon he fell asleep.
    He didn’t wake until he felt the ground tremble and heard the steel rumble of the tanks. The sun was hovering over the edge of the horizon, staining the countryside a dusty red. Climbing out of the crater, he sauntered back to the supply drop. He came up to Konieczny and Clean just as the tanks rolled over the rise.
    Clean looked at him. “Thanks for your fucking help.”
    Konieczny looked down the road and didn’t say anything.
    Freeze didn’t know Clean had reported him until the next day, when Reynolds led the platoon on a reconnaissance-in-force. They humped through the jungle all morning, sweating under their packs; then, toward midday, they smelled shit cooking in the heat. It had to be an NVA camp. Through a stand of bamboo, they spotted a row of bunkers. Reynolds ordered Freeze’s fire team to go in first, and they approached in a cloverleaf pattern. But the camp was abandoned. Bombers had attacked it, probably no more than a week before, and there were tank-sized craters everywhere. In a few places, the ground was still white from the phosphorous the spotter plane had dropped to give the B-52s their target. There was no sign of the NVA anywhere. Still, Reynolds ordered Freeze to check out a bunker that hadn’t been caved in by the bombs.
    â€œIt’s crawling with fire ants,” Freeze said. “There’s no gooks in there.”
    â€œI said check it out, Harris.”
    â€œWhy me?” Freeze said.
    Reynolds glared at him. “Yesterday I gave you a direct order, and you subverted it. It will not happen again.”
    Freeze looked at Konieczny, then at Clean. Clean crossed his arms on his chest and looked back.
    So Freeze climbed down and checked the bunker out, and when he came scrambling out a moment later, the ants were all over him. He jumped up and down, swatting and swiping at the red sons of bitches, while the men laughed at him.
    â€œYou bastard,” Freeze said to Reynolds. “You motherfucking bastard. I’m not going to eat any more of your shit.”
    â€œOh yes you will,” Reynolds said. “You’ll eat it. You’ll lick your plate clean, and you’ll ask for more.”
    Freeze stood there, breathing hate, and stared at Reynolds, an animal snarl on his face. He hated him more than he’d ever hated the NVA. He hated him more than the heat and the jungle, the leeches and mosquitoes, the monsoon rains, the smells of sulfur and shit and death, more than his sixty-pound pack, the blisters on his shoulders, the wet socks, the jungle rot and immersion foot, more than the lizards that cried fuck you, fuck you in the night, the thump of mortars, the booby traps, more even than the mine that hadn’t gone off.
    â€œThat’s a negative,” Freeze said, and before Reynolds could move, he snapped the bolt of his M-16, chambering a round, and shoved the flash suppressor into his belly, just under his ribs. The blood was drumming in his temples.
    Reynolds sucked in a breath. The men stepped back. “Holy shit,” Konieczny said.
    â€œTake it easy, bro,” Jackson said. “Everybody’s watching. You don’t want to do nothing when everybody’s watching.”
    Freeze ignored him. He stared at Reynolds. Reynolds opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. He closed and opened it again. Sweat began to bead on his upper lip. Freeze focused on one of the beads, and waited for it to slide down his lip and break. But it didn’t move. It hung there, as if time had stopped, as if there were no more time.
    Then everything went out of Freeze. What was he so angry about? It didn’t mean anything anymore.