"I don't get the blues," Klinger whispered, the night he was found in his office, shredding what little clothing he owned, "I get the greens."
The others stood by, unsure of what to do.
"Green," he muttered, "Green, green, green." He nonchalantly worked his fatigues into strips.
None of them made a move, scared of what was yet to come.
"It spreads, the green, it's everywhere." Slowly, he began to cry.
Glances were exchanged as they became increasingly aware of the tension. Together, they worked to pick Klinger up, dusting him off, wondering who would be the next to stumble.