YOU’RE DEAD!” The source of this sudden assault was a boy with olive skin, perfect white teeth, and big brown eyes. He lifted his pistol and fired at me with the plastic toy. “Bang! You’re dead!” he yelled out again. “Bang! Bang! Bang!” He kept firing, creating a level of imaginary carnage that rivaled the bloodiest video game. He was about seven years old and his banging had disrupted the peace and quiet of every passenger in the railroad car. Most were business men on their way home from meetings at their head offices in London, attempting to read or work as they passed away the two hours and change that it took British Rail to get from London’s King Cross Station to the North of England. I was among the weary few trying to sleep, still fighting the jet lag that always felt like it lasted two or three months for me when I travel eastwards across the Atlantic. The last thing I needed was to be yelled at by some doe-eyed, dimpled assassin who was both an incredibly cute little bastard and . . . a little bastard.
