White blankness flashes across my vision as a hand hits my face. There is a foreign man in front of me, from a foreign country, demanding information that I do not have. The room I am in is stiflingly hot, and a cloth is placed across my mouth. It feels wet, and I am drowning, fading in and out of my struggling body.

Now there is a child. My child. He has a box of crayons and draws a nearby desert. The room is hot, but naturally. My hands reach out, giving food, with a spoon to eat, and a glass of water. In this life I am nothing but a father, struggling in an honest job to survive. My son holds the glass to his lips and makes bubbling noises.

The cloth is removed and wrung into a bubbling bucket. As the man in front of me demands answers and rears his fist to strike, I catch sight of the red, white, and blue flag patch on his arm.