The tension had been building like a thunderstorm, and this time it finally snapped.
Grace and I were sitting under a patchy camo tarp at the edge of the camp, sipping warm bottled water and chatting quietly as we cleaned our sidearms. The sun had begun to dip into the jungle's horizon, casting long shadows across the rough terrain.
I don't even remember how the topic started—it must've been about boots or rations or maybe how ugly Carl's snoring was—but soon we were giggling, real, genuine laughter cutting through the thick air.
"You're telling me he actually tripped on a lizard?" Grace whispered, holding her sides.
"A fat lizard!" I snorted. "His face landed straight into the mud. Didn't even break his fall."
"Oh my god," she wheezed, wiping her eyes. "He's never going to live that down."
"Never," I agreed with a smug smile, wiping the edge of my pistol's barrel.
We were in our own little world. That was, until I heard the sharp stomp of boots approaching.
