I hate these men and women.
I watch as Rodgers types an email. 'I suppose, in the end, it is ourselves we are fighting', it says. I want to bury my fist in the back of his sweating neck.
Outside, somewhere amongst the mountains and the villages there are people who are dead. People who are dead because Rodgers is fighting himself.
In the camp, behind the walls, I listen to them talking. My men and women. They discuss how the folks at home don't understand. I say nothing. They look at me across their Cokes and burgers. They think me aloof.
They do not guess I creep between their bunks at night, resting the tip of my knife on their eyelids or their pretty lips or knuckles.
I know Rodgers visits prostitutes here. He likes to lift up their Burkas. I picture him, heavy and pale as a beef side.
Today, we looked at two children caught in a crossfire. Pale and waxy under the hot sun they did not look surprised to be dead. Rodgers said 'I don't know what to say'.
He took a photo. He says he does not know why he is here.