“You’re late.”

I’m perfectly on time, but Slight says this everytime we meet, “You’ll get over it.”

Slight eyes my hands, and I give him the flask I’ve snuck out of the mess hall.

He takes a grateful swig before lifting an eyebrow at me. He’s waiting for news.

“Tellers has the clap.”

Slight laughs. “I told him not to go to the docks. Nothing but disease.”

I smile, “He cried so loud while taking a leak, the sergeant heard him and sent him to sick bay.”

Slight hisses and squints his eyes.

“Lucky jerk,” I mumble.

That causes Slight to meet my eye. My stomach sinks. He hasn’t heard. His platoon must not have received the order.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we march for the front in the morning. He’ll be off duty for at least a day until the antibiotics kick in.”

One more day to live longer than the rest of us.

Slight goes silent. We stay like that for a while, side by side. Watching the night sky, passing the flask. Listening to the sound of crickets and distant explosions.