He stood there, shell shocked, with a thousand yard stare
In the last 48 hours he'd survived unspeakable horrors, but never left his station
Now, I needed to talk to him.
I didn't want to, but only he could answer my question.
I'd rather have left him alone.
He was like you and me until recently
But now front-line combat had turned him into a broken shell
Clothes disheveled, hair uncombed, hands shaking
An unlit cigarette hung from his quivering lips
But he was still a man with job to do
As I began speaking to him he summoned his composure
And softly answered my question
"Sorry, sir," he said "We're all out of the iPhone 4s."
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