She was singing a song in Vietnamese which he found to be stunningly heartbreaking, even though he didn't understand a word of it. She sang softly, as she looked at a small photo of his girlfriend, oceans away. A moment earlier, when they were done, she'd taken off her leg and leaned it against a cane chair in the corner. She'd become a specialist in oral pleasures because of it. "She number one pretty," the girl said, rubbing a fingernail along a shock of red hair in the photo. He gave her a half smile, wishing she would continue singing, but she never went back to it. His rifle leaned against the other side of the chair, only a little bit taller than the limb she'd left there. He slipped the picture into his wallet and offered her the joint he was smoking, but she waved him off. The Sarge was in the next room over, and you could hear him banging away through the wall. It was a thin wall, and there was a radio playing. A different song altogether.