Davis’s giant Newfoundland canine approached him from behind, panting. Davis shooed the dog away, annoyed. “Go back inside, Buddy.” Buddy shook himself dry, flinging smelly water all over Davis’s pants. Fucking piece of shit dog, he thought to himself as he tabulated the vet bills they had racked up over Buddy’s irritable bowels.

Next to him, Marion wore a long raincoat as she loaded into the family minivan with their eight-year-old son. “Any word yet on whether that promotion is going through?”

Davis deflected. “I’m not getting paneled until next quarter.”

She didn’t force the issue, but time was running out to get the deposit in. “It’s just that Grayson’s tuition is going up, and with Devin starting preschool, I need to know if we should be exploring other—”

Davis cut her off. “I’m going to be late. We’ll be fine.” He hopped in his car, eager to end the conversation.

He threw the car in reverse. Marion shouted something and waved both hands for his attention. Whatever it is she wants, I don’t have time to talk about it. Not today. Then he heard a hard thud on the roof, followed by sixteen ounces of coffee and milk cascading down his windshield. Fuck me.

Thirty minutes later, Davis was walking down the hall of the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center, his baggy suit now heavy with a sticky mix of rain and sweat. CTC was the big show, the Super Bowl of the human race, and it bustled with well-groomed men and women who moved with purpose. Davis envied them. They had places to go and were going places.

At Davis’s side was Ken Peterson, one of his last allies at the agency. Peterson had seen Davis’s reach exceed his grasp before and seen Davis’s career stall out because of it. For whatever reason, Peterson liked him, which was why he immediately guffawed when Davis insisted on a meeting with Peterson’s bosses in CTC to pitch them his new idea.

“Are you sure you want to bet the farm on this? There’s an opening at the Juba station. It would mean a guaranteed pay bump to GS-14.”

“Move my family to South Sudan!” It was an outrageous proposal and one that Peterson would never accept for himself.

“Yeah, you speak French, right?”

Davis appreciated the effort. His friend was trying to sell him on the idea for his own good—anything to keep him from self-immolating in front of the who’s who of the agency. “Juba could be a great short-term solution for you guys.”

“My family can barely handle the thought of leaving private school,” Davis said, dismissing the idea. “There’s no way I’m dragging them to the desert in North Africa.”

“You were a Gaddafi specialist who hasn’t been assigned in five years. What do you think is going to happen in there?” Peterson nodded toward the conference room at the end of the hall.

As they approached the large double doors, Peterson stopped his friend, pleading with him once more not to dig his own grave.