The Afghan sun hammered down on Forward Operating Base Salerno like a punishment from God himself. Staff Sergeant Max Childs sat in the communications tent, reviewing supply manifests for the third time that day. Eight months into his deployment, he’d learned to appreciate the monotony; it meant nobody was dying. At 32, Max carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who’d earned every scar, physical and otherwise. Two tours in Iraq, now his second in Afghanistan. Back home in Milbrook, Tennessee, his wife, Harriet, managed their hardware store, sent care packages every two weeks, and waited with the patience of a woman who understood what she’d married into.
