Before long, they started stashing his gear, tipping water into his boots, swapping his food tray for scraps. Even a few of the ranking guys got in on it – the type who figured shaming a man was how you built him up.
The worst of it came one night in the bunkroom, when a sergeant – one who really seemed to enjoy going after Marcus – smirked and said it plenty loud for the whole room to catch:
“If your mother raised something as soft as you, she can’t be much herself.”
The laughing that came after was ugly and loud. Marcus said nothing. He just faced away, balled up his hands, and stared at the wall until his knuckles went pale.
But that night, something in him gave.
The following morning, on a short break, Marcus stepped off to the far end of the base and phoned home.
When his mother’s voice came through, everything he’d held together fell apart.
“Hi, Mom…” he started, trying to keep it even.
But mothers always catch it.
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