"I'm too old for this," Calensk told one of the guards next to him, who ignored him.

"I don't get paid nearly enough," he told the inspector one morning, who shrugged and fingered the photo on his desk.

"I thought I'd stop handling guns when the war ended," he quipped to a detainee as he pressed his into her back, who was too busy stiffening her lip to hear him.

Indeed, he did not enjoy his new post. It only paid marginally better than his previous job of steaming letters, and it was much more tedious. On the surface, he called it boredom, but deep down, he was afraid. He didn't like the idea of firing his gun again. He hadn't done so since the Six Year War. Even imagining the sound of a gunshot coming from his fingertips made them begin quivering ever so slightly.

Maybe it was the way the expanse of the checkpoint looked like no man's land. And how the Grestin Wall looked like a fragile country not worth defending. And how everyone standing in line had the same expression as a soldier queuing up for death.

He didn't like it. Not one bit. He made it through the day thinking about the money he'd bring home. Nice stacks of notes. Wadded envelopes that crackle as they change hands. It was almost sensual.

Hearing his post would be moved closer to the prison was a great relief. A warzone looked less distressing behind the wings. Calensk was only a few feet away, but he already felt more at ease. He took a moment to wonder if that was why the officials were always so reckless. It must be easy to treat people as disposable when you're miles away, safe and powerful and free of the associations between gunshots and bleeding and screaming and death.

Then the moment passed, and Calensk set his mind once more upon bank notes and not firing his gun.