My interrogators are frustrated, because so far they are not getting the information that they want. They’re not getting my life, my secret inner self all fraught with rage against the machine. They’re getting the lives of Constantine Kyriakos, Athenais Karthagonensis and Berihun Bekele. They don’t like that, and they don’t know why it is happening, which they like even less. They’re keeping the non-native narrative feeds open—that’s what they’re calling my characters—each on a whole screen all its own, so that they can play them over and over again. What do they mean? If I could see right now through my eyes, I’d see them looking down at me, the ghost soldiers buried in my brain, fighting to keep the real me alive.