Hot

The sweat rolls down into my boots. My sleeves, rolled down to keep my arms from burning in the sun, cling to my aching arms. My pack is heavy from a long days march and fatigue weights me down, but we must keep walking.

The last few drops of water from my canteen found my lips about an hour ago. My throat feels like it’s coated with rubber cement and with every swallow it sticks. My eyes hurt from squinting. My head feels like it’s in a vice. The salt from sweat hitting my tongue only makes me thirstier. We must keep walking.

Fuck, it’s hot.