Грань будущего

           Untilthen,shewouldcontinuetoplayheruniqueroleintheconflict.

           Ritadidn’tmindthebattles.Shedidn’thavetothinktofight.WhensheclimbedintoherredJacket,thesadness,thelaughter,thememorythathauntedhermorethantherest-itallslippedaway.Thebattlefield,swirlingwithsmokeandgunpowder,wasRita’shome.

           PTendedlessthananhourlater.Thegeneral,thebileinhismouthforgotten,hurriedofftothebarracks.

           AsRitastood,themanbesideherstaggeredtohisfeet.Hewasn’tparticularlytallforaJacketjockey.Hewasyoung,butheworehisfatiguesasthoughhe’dbeenborninthem.Hisclotheslookedasthoughthey’djustcomefromthefactory,sotherewassomethingstrangelyjarringabouthisappearance.HislipsweretwistedinaMonaLisasmilethatdidagoodjobofconcealinghisage.

           Thenumber157wasscrawledinArabicnumeralsonthebackofhishand.Ritadidn’tknowwhatitmeant,butitwasanoddthingtodo.OddenoughthatRitadidn’tthinkshe’dbeforgettinghimanytimesoon.ShehadheardofsoldierstapingtheirbloodtypetothesolesoftheirfeetinthedaysbeforeJacketswerestandard-issue,butshe’dneverheardofasoldierwhokeptnotesinballpointpenonthebackofhishand.

           "Soyouwantedtotalk.Whatisit?"

           "Ah,right,"hesaid.

           "Well?Getonwithit,soldier.I’mapatientgirl,butthere’sabattletomorrow,andIhavethingstodo."

           "I,uh,haveananswertoyourquestion."Hehesitatedlikeahighschooldramastudentreadingfromabadscript