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.
Story Notes:Written in 2010.