It's been a long time since Willard's seen anyone make this much of a mess of quicksand. Not that he's been around quicksand for a while. Not that he was ever around that many people. He'd spent most of his time in Vietnam on solo missions, relying on his instincts and training, his skills and his alone. Which had been a blessing, really, because Willard's never been the best at working with others.

Here, he doesn't have much of a choice. "Get onto your back. You need to– Jesus. You need to spread out your weight."

He drops into a squat, trying to keep an ear out for disturbances while making sure the guy doesn't somehow plant his face in the muck. Is the guy talking to him? Willard isn't sure, and it doesn't make much sense if he is. Probably it's just the guy being fucking strange, maybe a panic reaction.

Of all the fucking places to be. Of all the people to be caught with.