I’m not who you think I am. I’m an actor. Just like all of you. I’m improvising, shooting from the hip. It’s all a lie. I’m a lie. You’re a lie. The lights—they don’t lie. But when they shine, they only tell half the story.

In the moments between bullets, those in foxholes regain their vision. They get to count the dead, feel for holes. Pain creeps through a sluice of calm.