Artyom stared at the empty blue saucer, knowing the peace of his small garden was slipping away.
The high Pamir Mountains did not have fences, only the gray shale that slid under a heavy boot.
Artyom stood in the narrow trench at Point Seven, his fingers cold against the rough stone wall. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small handful of dried bread crumbs, and let them fall into the dark crevice near the base of the ladder.
From the wooden guard box ten yards away, Silas adjusted his oversized wool collar and peered through the gray mist.
“You are going to get us both sent to the coal details,” Silas said, his voice high and nervous in the thin mountain air.
Artyom did not look up from the crack in the stone. He watched the tiny, dark eyes glistening in the shadows of the rock.
“They are hungry,” Artyom said, his accent heavy and slow.
“The sergeant is coming down from the upper ridge,” Silas said, leaning his head out of the box. “He has the daily detail sheet in his hand.”
Artyom wiped his dusty palms on his trousers and stepped back into the center of the trench.
“A few crumbs do not make a man poor, but they keep a small life warm,” Artyom said.
Silas spat into the dust, his eyes darting toward the wooden steps at the end of the line. “The Captain does not care about keeping things warm.”
By midnight, the cold inside the stone barracks was a physical weight that pressed against the chest.
The wooden door scraped open, and the yellow light of a lantern cut across the dirt floor. Captain Miller walked down the row of iron cots, his brass pen tapping against the hard leather of his report folder.
“Stand by your lockers,” Miller said, his voice flat.
Artyom stood at attention beside his cot, his left wrist bare where his watch usually sat.
Miller stopped in front of Artyom’s wooden trunk. He used the tip of his boot to push the lid fully open.
Inside, sitting directly on top of a neat stack of dry gray bread crusts, was Artyom’s silver pocket watch.
Miller reached down, picked up the watch by its heavy chain, and let it dangle in the lantern light.
“Explain this, soldier,” Miller said, looking from the watch to the pile of crusts.
“It is my watch, Captain,” Artyom said.
“I know whose watch it is,” Miller said, tapping the silver casing against his palm. “I want to know why a private is keeping three days of bread rations in his personal locker.”
Artyom kept his eyes fixed on the gray wooden beam directly above the Captain’s head.
“The bread is dry, sir,” Artyom said.
“We have a scale for the daily bread,” Miller said, writing a quick note in his folder. “A soldier who hides food is either selling it to the locals or preparing to leave his post.”
“I am not leaving,” Artyom said.
Miller dropped the watch back onto the pile of crusts with a sharp clink. “We will see what the ledger says at the end of the week.”
The lantern light disappeared, leaving the barracks in a silence that felt heavier than before.
