Dozens of faces were tight with tension—eyes squinted, jaws locked, bodies trembling in that very specific, very human way. One boy further down the line had both fists balled and pressed against his thighs, his face the color of spoiled milk.
It would've been funny—if it weren't happening to him too.
Merza stared at that sliver of sun, willing it to rise faster.
It didn't.
His entire focus had narrowed down to a single goal: don't piss yourself.
Every minute stretched into ten. Every breeze felt like an insult. His jaw was locked, breath shallow, and both heels were pressing deep into the dirt in a desperate attempt to ground himself. His bladder screamed louder than any of the scarred men patrolling the lines. He could feel every drop sloshing inside him, as if his insides had become a cruelly overfilled wineskin.
Then—just as he thought he could maybe, possibly hold on a little longer—he heard the sharp scrape of boots on gravel stop right in front of him.
