It takes seven seconds to run to the flag and back, twelve
seconds to circle the entire camp. It's that small. On
Thursdays, after the salute and the range practise, we play
cards and smoke, and talk about that one Thursday, three
months ago, when we first saw it.

It was a normal day in the desert. Hot and dry, and much too
bright. It peeped at us from beyond the ridge, wiggled its
nose, and retreated back into the wilderness. Omri,
sentimental as always, said it was cute. I said it looked
tasty, and that got some laughs.

Later that night, we awoke to screaming. Omri went out to
pee and it grabbed him, pouncing at him from the low bushes.
It tore off a huge chunk of his leg, and he got sent home,
the lucky fuck.

Eli was not as lucky. He was probably lying in the ground
for an hour until he died, clutching what remained of his
face in his brown hands.

I got a full house and collected thirteen cigarettes. I
laughed at my good fortune, my whole body shaking. It's so
small, our camp. Seven seconds to the flag, and back.