He looked out the bus window as they drove to the army camp in California. His textbook still lay in his lap, yet unread, for he knew he would have plenty of time to read in his tent when they reached Vietnam, but for now, he wanted to enjoy the scenery. They drove past several farms and he studied the cows and horses as they grazed. They were free, and he wondered how long it would be before he was, too; free to go back to school, free to become a doctor, free to raise a family, and most of all, free to be with Sara once again. He took a piece of paper and a pen from his backpack to start writing her a letter.
Dear Sara,
I am on the bus as I write this and already I cannot keep my mind off of you. These next few years are going to be hell. I can't tell you how glad I am that I have you to send letters to.
Not knowing what else to write, he leaves it at that and puts it between the crisp pages of his book to finish later. He looked back out his window and though he tried not to listen in on the conversation between the soldiers next to him, he couldn't help but wonder how they could so enthusiastically talk about death and murder. He clenched his fists; he didn't understand what was so appealing. He stewed over this as he tried to think of a way to finish his letter.