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The Battle of Long Island by Nancy Kress * * * * Over by the mess tent one of my younger nurses is standing close to a Special Forces lieutenant. I watch her face tip up to his, her eyes wide and shining, moonlight on her cheekbones. He reaches out one hand - his fingernails are not quite clean - and touches her brown hair where it falls over her shoulder, and the light on her skin trembles. I know that later tonight they will disappear into her tent, or his. Later this week they will walk around the compound with their arms around each other's waists, sit across from each other at mess, and feed each other choice bits of chow, oblivious to the amused glances of their friends. Later this month - or next month, or the one after that, if this bizarre duty goes on long enough she will be pale and distraught, crumpling letters in one hand. She will cry in the supply tent. She will tell the other nurses that he fed her lies. She will not hear orders, or will carry them out red-eyed and wrong, endangering other lives and despising her own. She will be |
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