"Comply with what?!" The man handed the piece of paper grump-barked.
"Whatever I say." She crossed her arms after quickly stomping a foot in a ballerina way and taking the posture of a marching soldier choosing not to just grab the rifle.
Another end of the run.
The hurricane had come and gone. Scrubbed the summer from concrete now perched on missing underground. A civilian convoy of caring had mustered who wasn't tied to "day job" that day. Locals in a tiny "town" in between National Parks were appalled at the type of trash that had blown through Main Street.
"Don't just grab shit." One team captain warned but without vigor having told crew that for weeks and watching one person after another do just that. Stabbed, poked, splintered, rashed, fevered, "SICK! Leave."
"Like sick leave?" The wisecracks.
"Like," the typically word-able editor/writer stifled pure anger and took a pull from a flask instead of saying anything. Trying to preserve people willing to be servicepeople from a world exploding into war and decimated by drugs was proving to be more than trying. "We'll see." She settled on. The responses to what should I do had also settled into a kind of roulette wheel of rote.
"Hand me the binoculars." A man's voice quietly wandered from buried in a gilly suit. His love's hand drifted from a two-hand hold of a thermos top worth of sweet smelling one more minute of not awake enough, yet, to follow orders. But the platform reached for...bare.
Tents unzippering, being re-zipped.
"Why would it be?"
"See, more left on the range."
"No."
"You're other left." A fellow enthusiast put the parade-wave flag in the left hand of the person trying to understand when nothing much could be said.
"I think I see smoke!"
"Stand still."
"Did we make it in time?" Healed limb ends on missing forearms shrugged shoulders and bobbed the question.
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