#castigligone

it doesn’t fucking help matters that he’s eight hours ahead of her and the progress of their humvee has been -- well,  it’s been fucking excruciating, to say the goddamn least.  a hundred dollars out of his own pocket and it’s still working like it ought to be from the junkyard or some shit -- inflated military budget be damned.  marines make do,  had been the response to that.  he feels like he could somehow sink into the sand that’s so hot he thinks he can feel it through his boots -- that,  or it’s the sleep deprivation talking.  frank doesn’t know.  with an MRE cookie and his uniform around his waist,  he sits away from the rest of the guys,  checking through his clunky flip phone that takes even longer to text on. 

upon scanning over the messages,  squinting in the sun,  frank smiles and -- it takes him a second to do the math with the time zones.  the last message is from an hour ago,  meaning it’s -- five there.  he drinks his “cookie” from the pouch before wiping his mouth,  using one hand to type at a painstaking pace.