Grief packed his chest like sludge. He stared into the building's charred shell, unable to believe that his brother was gone. Chaske was tired of Special Operations; he was tired of war. He wanted to quit. He wanted to explore the Native American roots that he had been so ignorant of. He wanted to discover his spiritual side. He wanted to stop killing. He looked around. Locals had put bunches of chrysanthemums and smoldering sticks of incense around the building, for several Vietnamese children had also died in the blaze. Chaske let the spirals of incense smoke mesmerize him; if he hadn't gotten Danny out of that Bangkok jail, his brother would still be alive. He held back the rush of guilt and wondered if Danny could see him from the sprit world. Chaske often wondered what happened to the souls' of the dead. He wondered what the sprit world really was. If such a place even existed; or if the notion was merely an irrational belief, handed down from generation to generation. He cleared his mind and tried to search within for signs of Danny.
