Jack came to our firebase, he came at night. He parked his black HiLux amid our gray ones in the motor pool. Our mechanic knew to wash the truck for him. In the morning, it sat glimmering on the wet gravel. All day we soldiers walked by, each of us finding our reflection in its black door and hood. Mr. Jack spent these days in a special building tucked in the perimeter’s far corner, just a shack really. We caught passing glimpses of those he met with. They looked unimportant, herders who wandered and saw much in their wanderings or elders from far-off border towns. Once or twice I caught sight of Mr. Jack in the day. Always he wore a pair of wraparound sunglasses, their lenses mirrored. Behind them, I imagined his eyes were very blue, the sort I’d seen from afar but never looked into. Once his business was done and before he left, he’d always visit Commander Sabir in his quarters. These visits lasted until late, and we could hear laughter through the walls, the type of late laughter that required a bottle.
