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"July 2003, Baghdad, Iraq. My face is plastered to the window of my 915 semi-truck, taking in the mayhem around us. The smell of burning tires comes in waves as we drive past smoldering wreck after smoldering wreck. The convoy creeps slowly by, and my truck nears a cluster of locals, shouting and arguing and pointing at.....a headless body in the road, next to a car that until very recently had not been a convertible. The top had been sheared clean off, nothing from the dashboard up. Infantry pick their way through the mess, until finally a gap in the activity reveals a dingy white robe, a single sandal, filthy hands pointing straight up at the sky, fingers curled as if around a steering wheel. Ten and two. And blood pooling around him."

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