“No,” Dubois moaned in his sleep. “Please. No.’’
Joe looked over at Dubois’s bunk. Dubois was running through the woods again, with the wolves at his heels. Every night, around the same time the bomb went off in Joe’s head, Dubois’s nightmares began. Dubois groaned again. Mumbled a word. Then his breathing quickened and he threw an arm up―Joe saw the white hand flashing through the dark. The hand missing a finger. The groans turned into moans again and then very quiet whimpering.
Dubois was being devoured now. The wolves had him.
Joe felt like a voyeur. Except that what he was peeping at wasn’t a naked body, but a naked soul. He had no right to listen to Dubois suffering in the night. But Joe didn’t have nightmares anymore. Even a nightmare would have been proof of life.
Dubois made a
