The point stares again at the bridge itself. They could drop their rounds all over the fucken place. The point doesn't take his eyes from that little fucken bridge. Here's why, 'mano. Bird calls are loud.
Nothing moves across the river.
Sweat runs down the face of the point. Hot, he thinks. Scared, he adds. Nobody in his right fucken mind wants to do this. Noise on this side of the river is muted, but hurried.