Alcohol-soaked breath heats air already so hot it could combust at any moment. Tempers boil over into exasperated outbursts.

“You don’t wanna start shit,” says the younger of the two boys trying to be men.

“Why wouldn’t I, what—you think I’m a coward?” says the oldest. Shirts are thrown down, bare chests clank with dog tags. The youngest boy’s blue boxers hang out of his three sizes too big Jincos. Three stories up the rest of the barracks residents hang off the rails, monkeys off trees, to watch in awe as the beer bottle breaks. They wait for blood-shed. The two boys rattle off obscenities in broken English daring the other to make a move. The crowd closest to them flows back and forth like the tides on a full moon. The youngest boy wavers and shows the first signs of fear as beads of sweat like mountain diamonds glisten on his forehead.

“Comeon’? what ya waitin’ for I dare you,” rolls off the oldest boy’s tongue as he takes the first step in this complex dance—broken beer bottle reflects his face. First swing cuts nothing but dead air. They waltz and the crowd breathes with them. The youngest boy moves in, his fist tight in a masquerade of confidence.

Their eyes connect, for a moment of silence, and unspoken respect. The oldest attacks again with the broken bottle, a deep inhale is heard through the crowd as the cold sharp glass sinks through molten skin. The youngest boy sways willow whipped by harsh realities wind before he sinks to his knees, blood seeping out of his abdomen.

The beer bottle crashes to the ground in broken pieces—blood on the left over Budweiser label. A wave of whispers arises through the crowd that the military police are on their way.

“MP’s run” drifts in the air like the last note of a song. The crowd no longer hangs from their tree like perches to watch for the bloodshed they so desired.

“Dude, are you alright?” chokes the oldest boy through shaking voice inflections.

“Why’d ya have to start shit?” whispers the youngest boy, his hands bloody covering his unnecessary wound.

Red lights bounce off cracked hallway walls, as the two MP’s make their way through straggling onlookers. As the oldest boy walks away in zip-ties to face his fate, the youngest is shackled down to the gurney. The medics and MP’s shake their heads.

"They couldn’t wait twenty four hours for the chance to see each other die.”

By Amy Koenig