I am a Desert Storm soldier and am under dire straits and running for our own lives. In order to save myself, I must dig a hole in the sand and bury myself. I wake up and manage to breathe by carefully tuning my nose right at the surface. I wait. I am close enough to our own lines to see and hear the men talking. One notices me and I explain what's going on. He's an officer and he orders me to stay put until he tells me to move. Time passes, days, and I stay. I somehow manage to adapt and survive. I even figure out how to get food. A soldier comes by and brings me a piece of K-meat. I don't accept contaminated meat; however, I have standards, you know. So I see him take it to another soldier, a "cooks," and he tests it. First, it's old and then it's contaminated. He throws it out and gets me a good one, dropping it in my sand pile, pretending it as an accident. I sort of realize that if he can move around out there, I could too, but I wait. I have my orders. Weeks pass. I shift my position and re-dig a better hole. Now I see an older man, a mayor, a big wig who is returning to his home to see the enemy soldiers have captured his wife, a pudgy woman in a yellow dress. She's about to be executed. The line-up reminds me of a wedding party lined up at the alter. She sees her husband and says, "Run for it, they have got me." He knows he is doomed, but goes to stand by his wife anyway. She begs him to run. She would never forgive herself if he was killed on her account. What would the neighbors say? He doesn't speak, but stoically stands with her to be executed. Time continues to pass. I see some men waiting for a bus. My sand is more like at a beach now. A young woman is camping out near me. She has a black sleeping bag. We chat and I explain why I'm there, buried in the sand. She is very sympathetic. Now I'm in a blue sleeping bag. I ask her not to be so conspicuous when she is talking to me, because it makes it obvious I'm there. She apologizes and she asks how long I have to stay there. I say, "Until they give me my orders." She says, "Shall I tell you a story?" I say, "Sure. Which one?" She says, "How about the one, "Scary to touch"? It's children's campfire spook story. I say, "OK," and then wonder if that's a good idea. It might scare me and I'll be all alone soon when she's gone.