A Storyby Daniel Woodrell
They woke us about three to go into the jungle and find the sergeant’s foot. The corporal of the guard stood on the breezeway banging a trash can with a billy club, shouting strangled sentences. The sudden light in the barracks spooked a few geckos across the ceiling, running upside down toward the farthest shadows. They seemed as comfortable running upside down as right side up, and they were something to stare at when you pulled night duty and tried to sleep in your rack during the day; you could count them or match them in little races in your mind, races that might not get completed or even started before sleep came. Geckos were clean, quiet, and sort of admirable, you knew they’d live okay with any kind of change.