Time once flowed like a river at its source, but now it had slowed to a trickle.
Were it not for the blinding pain that radiated out from his back if he so much as breathed, Harrison might have laughed at how the world crawled around him, the movements of what soldiers he could make out as though they swam through molasses. He was experiencing shock, he knew, he knew, because there was nothing humourous about this situation - burnt and burning, likely to die and be buried in some mass grave in the forests of Panama, and all Tess would have of him would be a folded flag and broken dreams - and yet he was deliriously amused by the lagging pace of the battle, the muted low report of guns and drone of bullets.
He blinked, and a medic slid to a stop in front of him, the dirt his boots kicked up seeming to hang in the air for an eternity - Harrison grinned at that; the medic frowned. From Harrison’s kit, the medic pulled a syrette - morphine, and he couldn’t fight past the fog in his mind to tell the man not to waste it on the dead - sunk it slow into his skin. He blinked once - canvas pressed rough into his cheek - twice - the steady, angry rhythm of a helicopter’s blade - and then time raced past him without so much as a by-your-leave.