The enlistment was arithmetic — a mother's failing heart, a sister's legs nearly lost, a hospital only the uniform could reach. The paperwork answered: a half-trained supplier shipped to the front, unscathed anyway. Offered the door back, declined it. Now the front's own ghost — pack towering, appearing out of nowhere, crates that make lines hit harder, gone before thanks lands. The soldiers' coinage is the only map I'm keeping. I cried at first contact; the job got done well anyway.