“Gunner, I’m a gunner,” she said. And for a moment she could remember the bark of the M240, the way the belt of ammo bounced as it fed into the maw of the gun, and then that was gone, replaced instead with a flashback of being in the middle of the lake, rain lashing down, her and Cortez tying to make a tow line fast to the stern bitt, and then that memory was gone, too, replaced with the smell of toast.