Mikey’s stubbled face floats in the darkness between door and jamb.  The sound of gunfire bursts over his shoulder accompanied by shots of fluorescent digital lightning. Soldiers call out threats to each other in the silences between shots like children telling time with an imaginary clock. The reading of the hands changes with eager rapidity but always presages the future. Mikey looks at me like he doesn’t know me. With steady eyes and an alarmingly genuine grin he says, hey. It comes out the way other people say excuse me. I wonder who’s inside, who’s playing games with him.

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