WWW #42: Match My Breath and Walk in My Footsteps

War makes strange bedfellows. Glasses clink like funeral bells. We become the fox, at last, or at the very least: We are not the sheep. Every time we step out of that door, all we have are the words of soldiers. And so many doors are open to us. You don't want this, but at last, and at the very least: in the morning, we ride. This could change everything.