Victor said nothing.
"Mr. Victor, when will the bridge be built?"
"After you die."
"Then I'll hurry up and die."
Victor didn't laugh. He hung up the phone, put the handset back, stood up, and walked to the window. Outside, the leaves of the sycamore trees on Paseo de la Reforma were almost gone, the bare branches swayed in the wind.
Twenty days after the war, Campeche, Mexico's 2nd Mechanized Brigade Camp.
Major Sanchez stood at the entrance of the barracks, in front of him were one hundred and twenty soldiers who had just returned from Syria. They had stayed at the Golan Heights for forty-three days, at Damascus Airport for seven days. They hadn't fought but had watched others fight with open eyes.
"Brothers, you are home."
No one spoke.
