Canvas After Lights: The Sergeant’s Quiet Claim - by Cole Harlan

The red light died and Jonah’s hand stayed on the belt. Ray had already come inside him once that night, the heat still leaking slow down the inside of his thigh while the undershirt stuck to his stomach. The generator stayed dead. No one in the tent moved. Jonah did not let go. Weeks earlier the same tent had only smelled of diesel and wet wool. Jonah arrived with the third rejection letter folded in his duffel, narrow through the shoulders, hair pulled tight because the humidity made it cling. Ray signed him onto supply so the first sergeant would stop asking. The cards waited on the folding table. A canteen appeared. Jonah moved it six inches away and kept counting. Ray’s boots paused at the foot of the cot after lights-out and then continued. An undershirt landed on the footlocker and was not returned. When the generator failed, Ray stood between Jonah’s knees and lifted the hem two inches. Cool air hit skin. Jonah’s breath caught. He did not push the hand away.