He stopped loving her a long time ago. Maybe after May fifth, when he had stopped loving himself.There was so little left to love anymore. He had loved some of the guys around him but they were gone now. He loved his rifle. Beyond that, there was no love. Maybe he had to let go of love to do these things.

There was no clarity, only the power of his rifle and the proximity of death and his involvement in it all. He didn't know who he was anymore. Maybe he never had. So much had changed in so short a time. He had survived so much yet had so far to go. Would he ever make it home? Who would he be if he did? So many guys he cared about were gone. It was up to him to give their deaths meaning.

How'd you get the name Singer?""Same as you. One of the old guys gave it to me my first day with the company. Guy named Shooter, killed the day before you showed up.""I've never heard you sing.""Nothing to sing about anymore.

He cried for all that he had done, for what he'd become, and for his belief in lies. That there was glory in killing and that you could kill without inflicting self-harm were two of the biggest lies.