“Most of the newly arrived don’t remember,” says Muldoon sympathetically.
Trent looks dubious. “I want some proof.”
Muldoon hits the button, and Trent’s body slides out on a tray. His face is peaceful.
“Wow,” mumbles Trent. “Uh. Yeah, that’s… that’s me.”
“All that matters now,” says Muldoon, “is the war.”
Trent’s still slowly nodding as he signs the enlistment form. Muldoon slides the body back in, glad he didn’t check the fingernails; this was a rush job. Nobody quite knows the ratio of presumed to pronounced in the Army of the Dead, and if he can help it, nobody ever will.