The man in the green hat spat into the dirt and whispered into my ear like a lover, “I think we’ve won.” He carried his body the same way I carried my gun, words came out of his mouth like bullets, and he was the only person I’ve known who could kill with words if he really wanted. Walking away from the field, I felt fire on my tongue, tasted the juices of a clemetine sliding down the back of my throat like glue. I imagined this was the way the sun would taste if you sliced it open. I imagined this was what victory was: tasting all the death you’ve seen and still being alive. No dead man could eat the sun, but I could.