JULY 4
The moon rises over the mountains of central Mexico, a nearly full moon in a sky the deep blue of an hour past sunset.
Get up.
I’m lying on a slope just down from a rural highway, lying in a mix of slate and grass and dirt that is damp with blood. There is dirt in my eyelashes and blood in what little of my hair I can see. There isn’t much pain, but I’m very, very tired.
Get up or you’ll die here.
My memories of what happened are inexact. I remember driving on a narrow highway through the mountains and into a dim tunnel with rough stone walls. Then this, looking up at the mountain ridge and the sky. I don’t know how I got from the tunnel to here. It seems impossible, but I think I was shot.
I search my memories for some explanation. A rough voice: You’re one of our most promising cadets. I hate like hell to see this happen to you.
No, that was too long ago.
A younger voice: Pack up just what you need, I’m getting you out of L.A.
That’s not it, either.
I’m so tired, I just want to close my eyes. Except for that moon. It’s getting brighter and higher, like God lifting his lamp, looking for his lost sheep.
I think the highway is up the slope, above me. If I were nearer to it, someone might see me. It might make a difference.
I get to my hands and knees, swaying, and put the waxing moon in my sights.
On your feet, soldier. You can do this. You’re made outta this.
Then I stand up.