Cold dog tags press against my chest under the weight of kevlar body armor. Their embossed words imprint into my skin. Name. Social Security Number. Religion— Latter-Day Saint.
My Humvee’s air conditioning does just enough to make me want more. I tell my gunner Iraq was once the Garden of Eden. Guess again, he says, and throws a piss bottle into the street.
We shot a man yesterday. Righteous, someone had said. Black hair caught in the zipper of the body bag. Maybe this is what Adam looked like. Maybe I should pray when I’m not scared.
The missionaries in my ward back home told me there is a painting of Teancum hanging in the MTC. His spear in a killing motion. For Teancum and me, war is not a rumor.