It’s not something Carver talked about back home: it just was. He was part of the command structure, responsible for the others, part of a larger mosaic. He had a part to play and it was his job to ensure that he never slowed the others down, never became a burden to them. Otherwise, their deaths would be his fault—a sin to carry until the end of days.

Their deaths are his fault, Carver knows. He got caught. He got stupid. The only kindness was he didn’t have to live with it for long.

He swallows hard. He would have been crippled if he’d lived: maybe not forever, but for long enough. Out of the fight one way or another, and a burden to the others. Yet another sin.

“I care about you, Rosita,” he says, very quietly.