Twenty-eight years in that godforsaken jungle. Killing soldiers wasn’t so bad. I hardly remember it. But burning those villages, watching those naked peasants cry… I see it every day. It’s not PTSD, it’s the drug. It’s only been a week, but it feels like a year. Every word is getting longer, the mosquitoes are getting louder. When the drug runs out, time stops, and you’re stuck in the jungle forever. It’s… grains of sand in a shrinking hour glass. I know what comes next. I need to ask you a favor.