The wind carried the smoke, and I picked up the helmet on the ground and put it on my head. The sun penetrated the clouds and shone on the blood-stained blade, reflecting a line of vague writing: "There are no innocents in war."
I shouldered my gun and walked deeper into the rainforest. There are more "hunters" out there, and I still want to be the cunning one.
When the knife is there, the people are there; when the people are there, there is always some hope. After all, there might be light beyond the edge.
