Winters strode among the trucks, idly listening to the voices of men reunited with their comrades. He tried to work the lid off a C-rat, but the opener confounded him and he didn’t care to slice up his hand over a can of gruel. He hated cans. He’d grown up in the country, where foods were fresh and cans were rare. Anything preserved came in a mason jar.
Thankfully, Nixon knew how to work a can opener. He handed the tin back to Winters and advised him to never get a cat. Winters agreed—mice would be hard to can.
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