Themorningmistclungtothebattlefieldlikeashroud,dampandheavywiththescentofgunpowderandearth.Henrymovedforward,hisbootssinkingintothemudwitheachstep,theweightofhisriflepressingagainsthisshoulderlikeaguiltysecret.Aroundhim,theothersoldiersshuffledinsilence,theirfacespaleanddrawn,eyesdartingnervouslytowardthetreelinewheretheenemywaited.Theairwasthickwithtension,alivingthingthatcoiledaroundthem,tighteningwitheverypassingsecond.Somewhereinthedistance,alonebirdcriedout,itssharpcallslicingthroughthestillness—asoundsooutofplaceitmadeHenryflinch.Hewipedhissweatingpalmsonhiscoatandswallowedhard,thetasteoffearbitteronhistongue.Thebattlewascoming.Hecouldfeelitinthetremblingofhishands,inthewayhishearthammeredagainsthisribslikeatrappedanimal.Andyet,hewalkedon,onefootinfrontoftheother,becausetherewasnoturningbacknow.
