Hawk eyes the still, and you think about pulling the pillow over your head. He seems bound and determined to kill himself with homemade whiskey, or homemade gin, or homemade moonshine, whatever the two of you call the atrocity that comes out of the still each week.
He holds a full glass out to you, his almost empty already. Your stomach and head ache in protest, and as you shake your head, he shrugs, pours it into his own glass. "To each his own," he quips, and gulps it down.
"I feel dead enough already," you tell him. "If I drink any more of that you'll have to bury me."
"Maybe you're allergic to the ether we dumped in it," he says, and flops down on the lawn chair beside your bunk. Oh yes, the lawn chairs - a new addition to the most popular bar behind Rosie's in camp. Klinger had presented you two with them for 'services rendered'. "Or maybe the toothpaste."
Despite yourself, you take his glass, and sip gingerly. "It is minty," you tell Hawk, handing it back.
"Fresh breath and drunk at the same time," he says, tilting ever so carefully towards you. "you're so easy."
"I have always depended on the kindness of strangers," you say quietly, as he tilts over more, leaning over you as you lay on your bunk. his face hasn't seen a razor in a week, and his breath smells like ether and toothpaste.