Then he’ll tell you his. We convened at the White Horse Tavern, under the glum and bleary eyes of Dylan Thomas, Norman Mailer, and Jack Kerouac. It was a warm March day, not spring yet but with winter fading, eight years and change since we’d invaded Iraq. Afghanistan loomed shadowy behind that, ...
The Sultan was rising again, a new day. I hadn’t slept, and held a cigarette that wouldn’t stop quivering. “She’s here,” he said, handing me a photocopied map with a red circle on it. “Can you hear me, Loo-tenant Porter? This is where she is.” We went to her. I needed to do something with the day...