Covering a yawn with the back of my hand, I looked at my wrist for the time, realizing as I checked that I had left it off that morning. Looking over the room, I noticed someone lying on his bunk. I must not have heard him come in.

He looked up, catching my gaze. "Private Tom Francis," he said by way of greeting. I smiled. "Corporal Penn Boyd."

I sat up, leaving the book on my bunk. I'd finished, I wouldn't need to use it for a while, if someone decided to "borrow" it.

"D'ye know the time?" I asked, noting again my feet didn't reach the floor on this bunk either.

He pulled his sleeve back to reveal a bare wrist. "Nope, sorry. We don't usually stand on traditional time keepers here."

I nodded, thoughtful. He stood and stretched. Tying a bootlace, he continued speaking. "It's almost time to head to the mess hall anyway."

Nodding again, I happily checked my own shoes. Happily, because I had found my shoes underneath my bunk. Sure, I was out of uniform, but that was all right. I had my shoes.

Heading to the door, he waited a moment so I could fall in step beside him. "Don't prison camps usually have one cook per cabin?"

"Usually, but we don't feel like heating up all the cabins when the weather is like this. Too hot to cook." He shrugged.

"So you cook eggs on the sidewalk?" I glanced sidelong at him.

Francis laughed. "Hardly. We just sit together around outdoor tables. The Germans say the heat wave'll break soon, so then we'll eat inside again. They'll like that as much as we will."

Stopping a moment, I thought about it while looking at the type of tent they had set up temporarily, the same type of table as in the cabin beneath it. Along the longest wall, they had several tables with pots of assorted size on top. The men standing behind them serving looked sweaty and tired. I was really hungry now. Note: sarcasm.

I'd never really eaten much, and as a result had a horrible case of anorexia nervosa when I was a teen. Two psychiatrists, four group therapy terms and three cases of rehab, and now I was back to point a. Wonderful.

I stepped underneath the tarp that was being used as a roof and fell in behind a tall man dressed in green. Tilting my head, I noticed that most of these guys looked overly warm. The temperature only looked to be about 25°C. This wasn't bad, considering. I supposed, those, if this was a German prison camp, they would no longer be used to hot weather. My eyes watered as the wind shifted. Any wonder why these guys weren't fresh as daisies?

Picking up a bowl at the end of the table, I took one step, waited, then took another step. I watched the man ahead of me in line to see how this thing worked. He held out his bowl, received a scoop full of something that didn't look half bad, was given a roll, and headed to a table.

"Kaiser bun," I said under my breath, examining what was in the soup pot before I moved another step forward. Definitely not Lunchables. Raising an eyebrow at it, I gave the man with the spoon an unconvinced look. "What is it?"

He gave me a look of his own, trying to judge, I suppose, who I was. "Dîner."

I shrugged and held out the bowl. "Obviously. I coulda figured that out meself."

"Then why didn't you?"

"I was jest tryin' to be friendly. Trouble, I'm not friendly."

"I would say. You're not very good at it."

"I said I wasn't." I stalked away, knowing that it was all an act. I didn't really care. I moved towards the table in the far corner, one that didn't seem too full. I was only five feet away when all the men moved over a bit, getting rid of all the room on the bench.

"Very mature, men," I said under my breath, but very sarcastically. I kept my pace, moving to the end of the table and sitting on the only available space—the end of the table itself. My back to the rest of the prisoners, I balanced the tray on my knees and looked with some trepidation in the bowl.

It was probably edible, but I just wasn't into eating heavy meals. Like Conrad, for example. My very, very best friend, my partner in crime, my accomplice, probably the only one I trust with my secrets. Now Conrad, he could eat. He's one of those meat and potatoes kinds of guys. He's too much of a guy sometimes, but I loved him to bits.