Somewhere along the way, I lost my razor, and our last night in San Salvador, Obama snapped at me. “What, you can’t even bother to shave?” he said. At first I thought that he was kidding. “I think my razor is somewhere in Brazil,” I said. “Pull yourself together,” he said. “We have to be professional here.” There was an edge to his voice; he wasn’t joking. I felt like exploding. I haven’t slept more than three hours in days. I’m doing three jobs out there defending this war for hours each day. Obama seemed oblivious to the work I was doing out of his sight, work that left me no time to buy a
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