In the desert, in a foreign land, in an armored personnel carrier, amongst men my own age, I sought for myself what there was left to see: abandoned minefields, burst oil pipelines, rubble. The last letter from my editor read, “The war-free edition just surpassed us in sales.” Still I filed my stories on time, mirrored house style. How we fall back on work when there is nothing else. I think of rubble and how easily the skin of white people burns in the sun. If the map precedes the territory, then we speak from the future. If the map precedes, then this is science fiction. The question remains: where are we now? For there is a war--between those who know there is a war, and those hellbent on denying its very existence. In my letters home there was a different tone.