The jailhouse seemed solitatious and dark, cavernous in its stillness, the air moist and dense. T’was silent, yet Buck heard the jungle crickets and screeching nightbirds of Vietnam. He knewed them sounds wasn’t real, but he ain’t pluss ’bout it. Buck got composure, that was why. A man’s gotta have composure. Anytime the world quieted, his mind ran o’er with memories, rearing they head whenever nothing real could muscle ’em out. Vietnam was like a stencil in his mind, inscribing itself upon a’ry sensation that sat still long ’nuff.
