"Jesus Christ," Booth muttered, his voice rough with sleep as he jolted upright. The sheets were tangled around his legs, damp with sweat, and for a disorienting second, he wasn’t sure where he was—Afghanistan or home. The dream clung to him like the stench of gunpowder, the images sharp: the crack of rifle fire, the weight of a dead man slumped against him. He rubbed his face hard, as if he could scrub the memory away.