Another one for Meg Mann that didn't make it into the fanzine...

Hitch looks like he's been run through the wringer—he's almost dead on his feet.

"Hey, you sit." I catch him by the sleeve. "I'll fix dinner."

"But it's my turn."

I take the crate out of his hands. "You can hardly stand up. You cook tomorrow night."

Hitch drops to the sand beside the Jeep with a sigh. "It's been an ugly day."

"Yeah," I reply. "That grenade sure did a number on your Jeep." I've noticed how he's been favoring his left arm and wonder how badly the explosion hurt him. I know he won't complain, but I ask anyway. "You sure you're okay?"

He looks me straight in the eyes. "I'm okay; I'm just tired."

I smile, knowing he's not lying to me. "Set up the stove?"

"Sure." He pulls himself up, wincing.

The sergeants - Moffitt and Troy are busy arguing over some point on the map they have spread out on the hood of my Jeep. They don't even look up as Hitch retrieves the camp stove from the back.

"No D rations, okay?" Hitch jokes.

"Hey, that was going to be the main course," I protest. "Now what am I gonna fix?"

"Ham and eggs?" he says with a hopeful smile.

I shake my head. "You have developed a strange affection for the one item on the menu Troy hates."

"He only hates it when I fix it. You have some kind of magic preparation secret that I am not privy to."

I laugh, knowing the only secret is in not overcooking them. I cut open the carton containing the pre-mixed meal and empty it into the pan Hitch set on the stove.

"Do you think we'll make it back to the line tomorrow?" Hitch asks as he pours water to boil for coffee.

"I dunno—that left rear wheel is makin' a right unpleasant noise." I toss the matchstick I've been chewing on for the last two hours, start to reach for a fresh one in my belt, and Hitch grins at me and I shrug and wink at him. We both have our fixations. He spits out his ever-present bubble gum and kicks some sand over it.

The sergeants have wrapped up their pow-wow and join us just as the ham and eggs are hot. Hitch passes the plates to me, and I fill them and pass them on, taking the last one for myself.

Troy looks suspiciously at his. "Hitchcock, you make this?"

"Huh uh, Sarge, it was Tully."

"Tully cooked last night," he rumbles, poking at the mounded eggs with his spoon.

"Hitch is wiped out, sir." I wink at my friend. "I took pity on him an' cooked again tonight."

"All right." He digs in.

"Tea, anyone?" Moffitt offers, as he does every night.

"Nah."

I pour a cup of coffee and pass it to Troy, who takes it with a nod of thanks. There's something to be said for the comfort of the routine of our evening meals.