‘When do I start?’ the war artist asked.
The captain glanced at his watch, his thin lips pressed into a sliver. Thirty seconds passed.
‘Today,’ he said.
From down the hallway a pistol shot rang out, followed by the sprightly pop of a champagne cork.
‘Right now, in fact.’ He handed the war artist a neatly folded uniform, saluted her, and walked out the door.
The War Artist | Online Only | Granta Magazine