I am in Europe. There is my old platoon: young, full-haired, smiling. They welcome me, then complain. It is a bad area. One out of six will die of prostate cancer. It is in the water, which spills over large brick buildings; it is in the ground. A young soldier shows me a gem bought from a villager. He regards its beauty and power. I can tell it is fake. The villager, who is middle-aged and wears a business suit, leaves his house. He walks toward me. I throw the gem in his face. "What are you doing?" I say. "This is uranium." Aloof and calm, he curls his hand around my neck, then releases it. We return to his house. There is the long flight home. I begin planning my escape.