A worn map lies stretched across the table creased, stained, its corners curled from years of use. Lines drawn, crossed out, redrawn again. The field is quiet, save for the hum of a radio and distant voices beyond the tent.

Only a few hundred this time. The rest hold position further south.

He adjusts a marker slightly, muttering under his breath.

“ Too exposed on the ridge… better shift north. ”

Wind rustles the canvas. He pauses, listening—then goes back to studying the terrain.