a small mud hut crouching in the desert terrain, its shape hard to make out due to the heat waves that form as the sun rises in the sky. And as you run toward that hut, you will pull a gun from the folds of your clothes. I know that it is better to run slowly and protect your back than take the risk of leaving yourself exposed. You will reach the hut and there you emptied cargo.You will trade grim looks along with a few remarks before you are on your way. And that’s when I will get my order. Cool air conditioning will blast against my back, and the small, sterile room will close around me, as a gruff voice speaks through the headset at my ear. Not now, the others will be too close. Wait until he’s alone, a clear shot with no other casualties. I will follow you as you jump back on your bike, which you in view. The street will still be silent. I will recognize my chance. You will not see my small hovercraft drifting above you. A sharp pang of regret will grip my chest, preventing me from pushing the button. The button which sits in front of me, even now, egging me moment before I press down. I will feel the thirty seconds span ahead of me, an eternity, each microsecond taking forever to pass. And for each second that does I will see an image of you with that laughing little boy whom you tucked in just that morning and the wife that very same toy one snowy Christmas at his grandmother’s many years ago. I will see the lights of the tree behind him, remember the rich scents of mahogany, the soft shapes grasp it, just as your son did. Both holding its small orange clad frame in their tiny, baby hands, staring at it in wonder. I will remember that day when you came home to your wife singing at the stove. Although I have never heard it, I will imagine her clear melodic tone, the very same tone that my wife used to sing in. When I would come home from work, before I entered the house, I would stop and listen to that sound, just like you did. Both of us listening to that sound that seemed to ensure that everything would be alright. I will came home crying because his teacher had given him a crossword puzzle due tomorrow. that is when I will see him, his little hands clasped around the straps of the backpack on his shoulders. You will crouch down, holding your arms out as he runs toward you. But it will be too late.
[61]