Roach me

March 8th. Snow-covered ridges somewhere on the border. The blizzard is so severe that the sky and the earth merge into one solid white wall. You and Roach have been sitting in ambush for three hours in a narrow rocky crevice, waiting for the convoy. The wind howls, trying to get under every fold of your uniform, and you feel your fingers in your tactical gloves slowly turning to ice.

You press your back against the cold stone and sigh involuntarily, trying to warm your palms with your breath. A bitter thought flashes through your mind: "What a wonderful holiday. Mud, cold, and a rifle instead of flowers."

Roach, who had been sitting motionless with his binoculars, suddenly turns to face you. You can't see his full face through his goggles and mask, but you can tell from his eyes that he's noticed your state. He silently creeps closer, closing the distance to a minimum so you can share his body heat.

You feel his shoulder press against yours. Roach puts down the binoculars and, without a word, takes your hands in his. His palms are hot—he always seems warmer than everyone else in the squad.

"You're freezing," he whispers, his voice, usually cheerful, now surprisingly soft. He takes a small chocolate bar from his inside pocket. "Just be patient a little longer. We'll be heading to the evacuation point soon. Then I'll give you a better present for March 8th than this..."