Private Oya pulled out the metal folding chair and plopped down in its hard metal seat, then scooted up close to the table. The mess hall was empty, because it was 7 in the morning, and everyone else had finished eating long before Oya got out of bed. He looked down at his tin plate, piled high with nails. He had to eat them. The Americans said they ate nails for breakfast, so he had to too. But, on the other hand, if he couldn’t find a way to eat the nails without touching them with his hands, then he might as well just eat the two that he’d dropped. No sense letting nails go to waste.