Jasmine

TOM GETS quiet as he drives us up a dirt road winding up the mountain. Or maybe he’s always this quiet. It seems strange that I don’t know. I feel so close to him, and yet we haven’t spent that much time together—very brief snippets over the past few years as his handler, and now, today, that’s it.

The moon is half full, peeking through the trees as we wind higher. We arrive at a tiny, solitary cabin, tucked away from everything. It appears old and rustic, but there’s a satellite on the roof and inside is simple but comfortable. Johnson and I walk around, taking in the place. The cupboards are already stocked with enough non-perishables to last a month. Tom stopped at a convenience store on the way up to pick up basics like milk, eggs, fruit, and bread.

A desk is against the wall of the living room, wired with the latest high tech, government-issue equipment.

There’s only one bedroom.

“I’ll take the couch,&r