It’s been twenty minutes since Stacy entered Rockefeller Center, which means that by now she’s already at the studio. I glance at the endless river of New Yorkers flowing through the street once more and, satisfied that I don’t see anything out place, I blend in with the crowd.

Reaching for my back pocket, I take out a folded grey baseball cap, straighten it out and then place it on my head. I turn my back to the Rockefeller Center and I cross the street, making my way down the block. It’s only a short walk to 51st and Park Avenue - only three blocks away from where I am -, and so I’m not in a hurry.

I get there right on time and I cross the road briskly, making a straight line toward one of the grey office buildings flanking the intersection. I check the address on my phone and, sure that I’m in the right place, I dial the number I’ve been given.

“I’m here,” I say as someone picks up on the other side, and the call’s over just like that. No response, but I know that none is needed. I place the cell phone inside my pocket and, knowing that I’ll probably have to wait a few minutes, I lean back against one of the columns around the building’s entry, and take out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from my other back pocket. I don’t really smoke - not since Iraq - but I don’t want to stand around like an idiot. So I do what I know best: I blend in.

“Hey, got a lighter?” I ask a woman in a business suit, cigarette locked between her middle and index finger, and she brings one out from her purse. “Thanks,” I nod, lighting my cigarette and joining her close to the ashtray column near the door. I take one deep breath, feeling the smoke fill my lungs and the nicone slip into my bloodstream just like the filthy bastard it is.

If anyone’s tracking my movements, they’ll probably think I’ve just stopped for a cigarette. And, if instead of tracking me they’re keeping tabs on this place, they’ll probably just take me as someone on his cigarette break. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but that’s a lesson I never managed to forget: being paranoid pays off. Sure, I’m no longer flushing out terrorists from dark tunnels or trying to avoid being blown up to pieces in the narrow streets of Fallujah, but you just never know.

I glance from the corner of my eye to the entrance of the building, and that’s when I see him. Thick grey beard, white hair combed back, and a hard expression on his stately face; he’s tall and thin, each of his limbs like twigs, but the way he carries himself tells me right off the bat that this guy is a veteran. He looks around seventy, which probably makes him a ‘Nam vet.

He doesn’t raise his eyes, but he makes me a beeline toward me all the same. Stopping a few feet away from me, he points with his chin at my cigarette.

“Can you get me one of these?” He asks me in a hoarse voice and I realize that, unlike me, this guy really smokes. Probably more than a pack a day, judging from the smell coming from his jacket.

“Sure, man,” I say, grabbing the pack of cigarettes from my pocket. I hand him the whole thing, and he fishes one cigarette out from the carton carefully, using his free hand to take his lighter out from his jacket. As he removes the lighter, I realize that he has brought out a small folded envelope as well.

“Thanks,” he grunts, handing me back the pack of cigarettes and passing me the envelope too.

“No problem,” I nod, stuffing everything into my pockets. As soon as I feel the envelope secured, I turn on my heels and get the hell out of there, suddenly realizing that my heart is racing.

I stop halfway down the block and take a deep break, my heart kicking and pushing against my ribcage. What the hell’s wrong with me? All I had to do was pick up the package - I didn’t even need to go through with all that counter surveillance tactics - and now I feel like I’ve just stepped on a landmine. Yeah, like I said, paranoia can be a friend sometimes, but there’s something more to all this.

I take the envelope out from my pocket and just stare at it, turning it in my hand as if it was packed with explosives. Opening it, I’m about to take out what’s inside when I stop. What the fuck am I even doing?

I’m losing my grip.

I have no idea what I’m doing anymore.

Truth is, I came back from the war broken. Except, of course, I wouldn’t admit it to anyone. That because, in my head, I wasn’t broken - I was just changed. Stronger. I walled off every normal emotion, forbid myself from love and compassion, and just tried to focus on work. That’s all I’ve known ever since I left the Middle East.

That, of course, until I met Stacy. Something in her woke up a part of me that I thought was long gone. More than that, she made me remember how it feels to be alive - truly alive.

And now here I am with this fucking envelope in my hands, feeling as fucking confused as I’ve ever felt.

“Sanders!” I hear a voice cry out my name, and I feel my blood freezing inside my veins. Not because someone found me out, but because that someone is Stacy. I got careless… I got careless and she followed me here.

Fighting off against the urge to simply blend in with the crowd and vanish from sight, pretend that I was never there in the first place, I turn on my heels to face her.

She’s walking toward me in a hurried step, one of her friends right by her side, the click of their high heels sounding like the rattle of a machine gun.

Here we go.