My squad was my family, my gun was my provider and protector, and my rule was to kill or be killed. The extent of my thoughts didn't go much beyond that. We had been fighting for over two years, and killing had become a daily activity. I felt no pity for anyone. (Chapter 15)

"I feel as if there is nothing left for me to be alive for," I said slowly. "I have no family, it is just me. No one will be able to tell stories about my childhood." (Chapter 18)

One thing about being lonesome is that you think too much, especially when there isn’t much else you can do. I didn’t like this and I tried to stop myself from thinking, but nothing seemed to work.