The quiet had lulled him into a false sense of safety. He reasoned with himself. Okay, I might die here. I’d rather not but if I do, then that’s what’s supposed to happen and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. And he thought about what a terrible thing it was to have turned over responsibility for his life, his very existence, to the U.S. government, and that because of it he might be breathing his last breaths in this shithole back room, on this back street dirt floor in Mogadishu-fucking-Somalia.
