They say that it is never dark in the desert; the stars give off enough light, even if the moon is absent. And they say the contrast of sand and any thing else makes stand out. They lied. The stars mock a persons' blindness at night. Sand, stone, and scorpions look the same in the dark. Oh, the stars help you find the horizon, but that doesn't help when you are trying not to step in the tanglefoot barbed wire at your feet. You have to compensate for the traitorous stars. You listen; the sigh of a night breeze, the gentle hiss of blowing sand. The sharp click as your team-mate steps on a Bouncing Betty, followed by the frightened obscenity. Clothing rustles in the dark, both yours and the others'. Scent also takes over. You can smell the others; their last meal, the faint trace of explosive. Event their fear-sweat. Just like yours. My team says I shouldn't wear my gloves at night, so I can feel for tripwires. But at night I feel everything; every drop of sweat, every grain of blown sand, every drop of blood oozing from the wound in the new guy's side while I fumble in the dark for a bandage. He's the reason I wear the gloves. For protection. Because no matter how much armor I wear, no matter how my eyes scan left to right to move my blind spot, no matter how many are in my team, in the dark you are always alone and vulnerable. But not completely alone. There's always the others. And your imagination. The liars.