As usual, I’m sent off with no expectation of returning, maybe even preferred if I didn’t. Maybe I’d rather not.
This cold northern corner of the continent is surely forsaken. Why else would I be here.
I’ve been on the lookout for spies and infiltrators for months now. The only things I’ve found is the bottom of several bottles at the local tavern.
These yanks don’t see me and that’s probably all for the better. It allows me to be ignored while I listen to their plans while I enjoy reading these books abandoned in my cabin.
This expectation of my death does nothing but steel me to persist and endure. Whiskey is good for courage when delving into those things that should not be found, that should not be allowed to exist. Doesn’t my interest in them just give them a reason to exist? Maybe that’s what the whiskey is for, to help deny their being perceived. But what if it’s the whiskey that lets me see them?