Chapter 1: The Three Musketteers

They called us the Three Musketeers—Danny, Larkson, and me. In Afghanistan, where every day felt like a gamble, our bond was the only thing keeping us sane. Danny was the loud one, always cracking jokes, making us laugh even when the world around us felt unbearable. Larkson, the quiet one, grounded us with his calm and steady presence. And me? I was James, the one trying to hold it all together.

We had our routines. Danny would barter candy from care packages with locals in search of the “perfect tea.” Larkson carried a small notebook everywhere, sketching anything that caught his eye—the jagged mountain ridges, kids playing in the dirt, or the rusted-out trucks abandoned on the roadside. “This place isn’t just a battlefield,” he said once. “Someday, I’ll make a book for my kids. Show them what this place was really like.”

That morning started like any other. We were on patrol near a small village, the sun just beginning to rise over the mountains. The air was cool, and for a moment, the desert felt peaceful. Larkson walked ahead of us, sketching the peaks in his notebook, muttering about how the early light made them look like they were floating. Danny and I trailed behind, joking about the bets he always lost.

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Then, out of nowhere, the sharp crack of a sniper rifle shattered the stillness.

Larkson dropped instantly, his notebook slipping from his hands and landing in the dirt, pages fluttering open. Danny and I hit the ground, adrenaline surging as we scanned the ridges for the shooter. When I crawled over to Larkson, my heart stopped. A single, clean shot had hit him right in the eye.

I yelled for the medics, even though deep down I knew it was too late. His body was still, his face pale, and his notebook lay open beside him, the last sketch unfinished. Danny crawled up beside me, his usual grin replaced by a look of disbelief. “No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “No, no, no.”

The medics arrived, but there was nothing they could do. Larkson was gone.

We carried him back to the convoy in silence, his notebook clutched in my hands. Later that night, I flipped through its pages, each sketch a reminder of the man who had seen beauty in a place most of us only saw as a battlefield. The last page was unfinished—a pair of mountain peaks, their shadows stretching across the valley. I stared at it for hours, wondering what he would have drawn next.

Losing Larkson felt like losing a part of ourselves. Danny tried to mask his grief with humor, but I could see the cracks forming. As for me, I kept Larkson’s notebook close, a reminder of who he was and what he left behind. The Three Musketeers were down to two, and nothing would ever be the same.