Chapter 1
Every day is the same to an exile. Every day is routine. Getting up in the morning becomes an exercise in superstition, a ritual without faith to give it meaning.
The alarm goes off, red numbers flashing 6 A.M. I sit bolt upright, hit the button to shut it up, and put my feet on the floor. I run my hands through my hair as if to impose some sort of order on it. I stand up despite the nausea of last night’s vodka. I shuffle over to the bathroom without ever fully opening my eyes, shower and get dressed, eat whatever happens to be easiest. I’m in my car and on the highway by 6:30 and at the office by 7:00. Another day of work at the FBI’s residential agency in Hennington, Minnesota.
I don’t really dream anymore, or if I do dream I don’t remember it. Maybe that’s a good thing, I
