The boy made fists tight as frozen potatoes, clenching and unclenching his hands as his father drilled the words into him. “Ok, you’ve made it this far, Son. You remember that when things get hairy in there. I don’t have to tell you how many folks never even make it to Labor, do I? But your old man made it, and you will too. I’m sure of it. Ok, kid, what’s the first rule?” “Look for cover.” “Damn straight. You kill time that way. Killing time is the name of this here game. Rule two?” “Cover ground by night.” “Good. That’s right, Son. You wait for dusk and get a lead on those bastards. Don’t let ‘em lull you into complacency. It’s an old trick. When the sun goes down, you get moving. Rule three?” The boy looked into his father’s eyes, a pair of ruddy brown pools, the whites streaked though with crimson veins. Sleep had been fleeting for all of them in the weeks since the baby’s due date fell into testing range. He swallowed hard. “A kill is as good as a victory,”
