Routine
The gym was a large tent—metal racks, treadmills, water bottles lined up like trophies. I was on the treadmill, staring at nothing, and the entire place exploded into motion. For a second, I thought it was an earthquake. I didn’t know deserts had earthquakes. The ground moved under the treadmill, and everything fell: weights, Kevlars, bottles, all crashing in rhythm.
We all looked at each other, trying to figure out what to do. You can’t “duck and cover” in a gym tent. There’s nothing to hide under but dumbbells and a sagging canvas roof. For a split second, your brain goes very quiet. Nothing poetic. Just one blunt thought: This is it. I’m going to die. And then, when the second passes and you realize you didn’t die, the shaking stopped as fast as it started. You go right back to whatever your body was doing before the shock hit. There’s no dramatic reflection. No trembling hands. No life-flashing-before-your-eyes moment. Your mind just resets itself out of necessity.
I stepped outside and saw the crater—deep and wide. Dirt smoking near the entrance, close to where the treadmills were. That’s when it hit me. We hadn’t had an earthquake. We’d been mortared. I didn’t stop to look at it. Didn’t take a photo. Didn’t comment. I just stepped around it. For a moment, the air was so still it didn’t feel real. Then someone shouted, people ran, and the normal noise of the camp returned in strange bursts. Because that’s what Iraq did to you. It rewired the order of operations: Survive. Eat. Move on. Repeat tomorrow.
The next morning, I heard that one of the local contractors didn’t.
