The bus jolted forward with a mechanical sigh, its rusted hinges groaning like old bones. Twenty-seven boys, barely men, sat packed inside like grain sacks. Jimi sat near the window, his knees grazing the worn metal, his hands tucked under his armpits against the early morning chill. Outside, the landscape passed in flickers—brown soil, tilled fields, trees stripped of leaves like skeletons dancing past the glass.
The road to the barracks was long—longer than any road should be when one is leaving behind a life, a name, a mother's voice.
The soldier seated across from him snored lightly, his head rolling with the rhythm of the bus. Another near the front laughed at something no one else found funny. Jimi kept his face still. There was a silent understanding among them all—jittery new recruits trying to pretend they weren't afraid. They had signed up with different motives. Some for food. Some for pride. Some for protection. Jimi had signed up with something colder.
He pressed his head to the window. The glass was cool. Too clear. Too real.
He remembered the fight with his mother, death of his father.
The sun was climbing now, casting gold light over the dry land. In the distance, a vulture circled lazily over a carcass. The symbolism wasn't lost on him.
The boy beside him—barely eighteen, acne still fresh on his cheeks—turned and whispered, "You scared?"
Jimi didn't look at him. "No."
It was a lie, of course. But what else could he say? That every breath was a tightrope? That every memory of his father's blood soaked shirt haunted his steps?
No. He had to be still. Cold. Iron.
As they neared the barracks, the others began to shift. Boots were adjusted. Shirts were tucked in. Someone tried to hum a song and failed. The gray silhouette of the compound rose ahead like a mouth ready to swallow.
"Everyone down," barked the soldier in charge.
One by one, they stepped out. Jimi's feet hit the red soil with a quiet thud. The air was heavier here. Tense.
Rows of armed men watched them silently. There was no welcome. No nods. Just eyes behind steel.
Jimi stood straighter. He could feel his father watching him—or maybe it was just guilt threading through his spine.
Whatever it was, he didn't flinch. Not when they were ordered to strip. Not when they were made to stand in the sun. Not when an older soldier shoved him with a grunt.
He was here now.
A recruit.
A traitor.
A son searching for something behind enemy lines—even if he didn't yet know what.